A Concert for Twenty Fingers
by Craneeum
Summary: My eyelids snap open and his dark-ringed eyes slowly peel to look at me. For the briefest instant, I feel we both share the same empty space between brainwaves. How buddhist of us. But within about three seconds, we roughly untangle our bodies, scream into each others faces for good measure, and run. Like, why. [Officially more reviews than my old version, Thanks everyone :D )
1. Historical Drama

If you had shown me, on April 2nd, 2009, a police lineup of the 21 other teenagers who'd received the same letter of confirmation I did, my eyes never would have landed on him.

I can see you frowning as you read my opening line. I'm sure you all expected this story to be the classic summer love story of a young man struck by sudden flushes of previously undiscovered homoerotic desires for another lean, less-hirsute adolescent male. You probably expected us to be like two blushing anime boys, completely oblivious to their own sub-surface desires, falling all over each other. Or at the very least, somewhat knowing, but in complete denial. Well, I will burst your proverbial bubble before you wade through a couple chapters of this nonsense: no. No, I'm not in denial, and I'm not saying it in the easily defeated and transparent way people usually say it. When I came into this competition, I was completely self-assured. Also, no, I never was a blushing, uncertain 'uke' as you crazy anime kids would say (well I'm sorry if I find Neon Genesis Evangelion to be a fascinating and complex story)

Of course, I'm only speaking for myself.

I didn't need to meet him to know that I'm gay. I've known for a while now. For God's sake, I'll be seventeen in September, if I hadn't figured it out by now, I'd be in for quite a confusing adolescence and probably an adulthood full of latent and painful feelings that wouldn't be fully understood until middle-age, at which point the tragic amount of body hair that frequently plagues older members of my ethnic group would render me rather unappealing to hot young white guys, and I'd live a life of loneliness. Not that I'd have any better chances with other 'brown' guys. Yes, I need to cover my own behind and express that I'm not racist against my own kind, just that I don't find most of them attractive.(Except maybe the Lebanese. Damn. ) And it seems that trying to find gay guys who are Arab or Indian or anything like that is a lot harder than gay white guys. The world is _crawling _with gay white guys. It's just that they aren't always crawling towards me.

Anyway, I don't want to come across as whiny, though I imagine that if you care about my life story, or rather the parts that involve me kissing boys, because let's be realistic, that's the part you people honestly care about, you've seen me on TV, and you probably already think I'm a little bitch. But you all seem to like me well enough. So that's really…something.

But my fans get a couple things wrong about me. First of all, I'm tempted to lash out a big El-Oh-El at all the folks who still defend me as being straight. They ship me with any girl that isn't attached, even some who are. And often with Eva. Thanks guys, you know, you aren't really defending the whole 'Noah is Hetero!' stance by pairing me with the manliest chick from our show.

Secondly, um, hello? I was _totally _popular in high school! Okay, maybe not the _most_ popular, but you can't be number one without sacrificing a lot of neurons in the process. But people knew me. People liked me. I made it to student council, all sorts of activities, anyone would talk to me, and I was completely aware of my surroundings, while all at once sort of seeing the superficial side of this. Not sure if you really care. I guess I wanted to clear that up.

You probably want me to skip over all the tidbits about my bustling childhood up to and including my awkward emo phase at age 12. You totally just want me to skip to the part with me making out with Cody, or at the very least the part where I kissed his ear. You want to hear about my earliest forays into homosexuality. But tragically for you fans who are oh-so-obsessed with my state of absolute virginity, I've actually (hold onto your hats kiddies) been with _people that weren't Cody! _

_I've even kissed a girl! _

Collective gasps come from the mouths of the readers right now. Because you think, oh Noah, so awkward, only us as his hundreds of fans understand him! Well it kind of leads back to my whole, 'I have a social life' thing, because I actually do. I got invited to the parties. To be fair, I didn't always go. And they usually told me to keep the whole thing hush-hush from the other advanced programs students. But hey, it's the thought that counts.

Girls sort of liked me. I think it's because girls like, adore gay guys, in a move completely detrimental to the continuation of the species. My first kiss with a girl was on December 13th, 2006 with a redheaded girl named Rita. Actually she was awesome, and even though I wasn't all that into chicks, I was completely okay with hanging out with her. But I kinda made out with her hot cousin Stéphane when we all got together on New Year. And that really solidified (I know you're going to make a pun out of that) the whole 'Noah likes men' thing. I kept all that craziness on the down-low for a while but when Rita started getting a bit too antsy for my genitals I had to throw the brakes on.

No, she didn't hit me. She was…a tiny bit sad. And I only saw Stéphane a couple more times, none of these ending with hot 9th grader loving. Whoops.

And then I most of grade 10 and the entirety of grade 11 winning academic awards, playing piano, reading books and being the one braniac in English who knew every symbolic aspect of Conrad's Heart of Darkness, and going out on the weekends because my Mom did not give two shits after having already been driven to the edge by my eight older siblings. I never drank, except maybe one glass, even at the parties where everyone was hitting the bottle hard and the parents were nowhere to be found. Because if you're drunk, you're an instigator. But if you're sober, you're an observer.

That became the highlight of my sixteenth year. Watching people do stupid shit when they were drunk, and then ratting them out to _everyone. _I don't seem like the type that would gossip, do I? Nonetheless, I did. I watched, and I reported. The reason I was so good was my nonchalant attitude about every last bit of it. I was a teenager who wasn't stupid, so of course, I should use my position to my advantage. People should pay for being dumb, and the currency they paid in was ridicule, much of it trickling back to me.

I bet some of my readers are no longer fans of mine. You probably expected that I was a really nice guy. Well, I am a nice guy in some ways. I always listen when someone has a problem. To be fair, most of the feedback I give them is either A, sarcastic remarks, or B, telling them dirt on someone who has it worse than them.

There was one time I did something very horrible at a party. Involving spit-swapping with an inebriated 18-year-old who either wasn't gay or hadn't told anybody. That was one thing I didn't gossip about. Not for Brennan's sake, but because I didn't wanna be ousted. I liked the female attention. None of it was permanent, none of it would mean anything in the end, but I liked it, and I never wanted to lose it.

Judging by my fanbase, I'll always have women who pay attention to me, even if I started chasing after Chris MacLean.

Okay, so I'm a homosexual gossip queen who gets 90s in almost all his classes, who cheated on his only girlfriend, and maintains a completely Meursault-esque outlook on life and society. (Read Camus' "_L'Etranger"_) That is who I am. I wanted to get these trivialities out of the way so I could rest assured that any fans who want to change their mind about me do it right now. So that people who only like me because I somehow became Cody's sex toy would turn away instead of getting off to my personal history.

And you know, I was totally fine with all this. I loved my life. I was somewhat popular, smart, and secure in my quiet-but-not-closeted homosexuality.

You probably expect that I'd say everything changed when I met him, but it isn't quite so simple. He didn't send me into an instant flurry, but in a way, what happened was even more pervasive. He wormed into me. He made me think of things I'd never really thought of – which is quite a feat when it comes to someone who thinks as much as I do.

He made me have actually feelings. Sticky, confusing, visceral feelings. Um, gross.

* * *

**My aim with this story is to...not be cliche. Not to focus solely on the Playa, not to make a gigantic deal of Noah's orientation, not to get Izzy extremely involved...at least I hope. It's been pretty fun to write. I hope I actually finish this one, and I hope you all enjoy! :D**


	2. Low Fantasy

It is the 29th of June, 2009. I am displeased.

I am malcontented. This is because grading day was literally 3 days ago, and instead of having the summer before my senior year being a mess of beaches (and reading books on the beach), bonfires (but not reading books at the bonfire, because some people think burning school copies of Lord of the Flies is a good plan), I'm here on this horribly disheveled island and I need to put up with a bunch of purebred morons for the next month. The worst part is, I should _hope _that I stay here for the full month, because if it winds up being less than that, it means I lost. I don't want to lose. I want money. I'm not sure why. But I like money, therefore owning a large sum of it would be a positive thing. Ergo, I am here, at summer camp.

Some green-haired genuine anus decides to grab me by the lip. Not in the sexy way, if there is a sexy way.

I don't even take the time to learn the names of half these people. In a perfect world, they'll all be out of here before I am anyway. Actually, in a perfect world, my brother Mark is here instead of me, because he's 'rough and tumble', and then we split the money. But I guess I mean perfect in a realistic way.

My glance falls briefly on a few people that catch my eye. Mostly because one is obese, one has blue hair, and one is very hot. He sort of reminds of poor drunken Brennan, but with darker hair. I examine him for a moment, lips tight, and decide on the spot that I will probably never talk to him. I already told myself to not get attached to anybody. Particularly if that involves making myself look incredibly gay on national TV. Not that there won't be a number of viewers that get tipped off by my very faggy voice, but you know what? I like my voice. It's nasally and annoying, but expertly crafted for sarcasm.

In addition to the aforementioned points, I see that my 'hot guy' is paying a fair bit of attention to the blue-haired girl. Which actually irks me slightly. She wears blue lipstick. Obviously just doing it for attention. She probably likes to think that she's somehow different than every other aching teen or that her writing or music or whatever artistic pursuit she entertains is somehow distinctive and special and it will get her places. I scoff, and turn my attentions elsewhere.

I spot all the stereotypes within about four minutes. The blond girl is probably some dippy-hippy who has a moral problem with meat. After hearing one sentence from the big boobs girl, I can tell she has more boobs than brain, but that will make for good tv. The guy with the slightly tinted glasses, well, do I even need to go there? I stretch as I run my hands through my hair. I'm annoyed with everyone already, but somewhat fascinated all the same. I'm sure some crazy scandalous stuff is going to happen before long, and I just want to ensure that it doesn't star me.

My hopes for complex drama are quickly squished when the dock beneath us collapses. I can see we're going to be relying on slapstick for this show's hilarity. Pity.

We don't get too much time to mingle before we're divided into two groups. I get put in with these Screaming Gophers. The 'hot guy' character from earlier is on my team, as is his blue-haired queen. I found out his name is Trent.

A couple times he speaks to me when we are completing our first challenge. He always stands near me. He smells too strongly of Axe, it's a bit of a turn off, and possibly a hazard due to the frequency of explosive fires around this place. He calls me names like 'buddy' and 'bro'. It gives off this strange feeling of intimacy, but I remind myself it's because he probably doesn't know what my name is. I make him chuckle with my snarky remarks once or twice. It's a nice feeling, but I leave it at that.

The morbidly obese guy also seems to have taken an early liking to me. Not sure if this is a good thing. He made some ambiguously gay comments earlier, and I would prefer to not be pinned under someone who emanates noxious fumes. I think I would choose Trent's body spray over Owen's pungent blend of methane and sulfates. Well, maybe if we _did, _by some crazy twist of fate, become friends, I could at least use the gravitational field of his mass to keep scary/insane people like Izzy and that guy with the unibrow diverted away from me.

So as I observe this crowd, I keep scheming things in my mind. Play the game. In school, the 'game' often involves making friend with people you don't like, but here, it's the exact opposite. I will observe them without getting too close, so I know how they act, what makes them weak. I did that in school, and I managed to overcome the fourth-grade _and _later the eighth-grade bully. This could be a breeze if I play my cards right.

However, as I watch my team-mates strip off to get into the hot tub, I note that I must avoid temptation to think with my dick. Not that it's ever been a problem to me! If I were to start coming on to someone, though, I would probably get singled out as a super creep, outed in front of everyone, and deeply embarrassed on national TV. I cringe at the thought. Okay. I decide on a mantra. Claws out, pants on.

I'm in a good mood so I dance.

And I keep my pants on.

It was the first of July last time I laid in bed to sleep. The sun is setting on the third, and I'm very grumpy. I devoured an entire copy of "Like Water for Chocolate". I like magical realism. And it's making me wish I had some Mexican beans and corn. I only brought one book over here with me, and I can't exactly run back up to my cabin to get another. I suppose that's for the best, because my eyes started drooping during the boring bits. Not that novels in which everybody dies are really that boring.

I sit with my knees drawn up towards me. I feel too tired to stand, even though standing would probably wake me up a bit. I crinkle my forehead as I try to look up. The sun is still bright enough on the horizon to sting my red and probably goopy eyes. I poke my fingers at the corners to clear out nasty sleep residues. Ew.

This scrawny gap-tooth kid on my team saunters nearer to me. He makes a crude attempt to talk to the blue-haired girl, and I scoff. If one pays close attention to his expressions when he's near her, one will notice a rather humorous pattern. Firstly, in his eyebrows – arched down when she faces him, or rather, one up, one down, in the 'say whaaat?' expression, and arched up when she faces away. The smile he gives her is tight, fake, and I guess one could say 'pimpin'. As soon as she walks away from him, he always relaxes his chest, breathes out, and smiles in a more innocent but decidedly more pathetic way. I can't help but laugh.

However, as he approaches her right now, she doesn't even look up. She's gazing into Trent's eyes. They've been together pretty much all night. Huge flirt-fest if you ask me. I'm not bothered by it. Punks of an oh-so-snowflake –special and individualistic feather can discuss mainstream screamo music together. Trent might be eye-candy, but certainly not brain-candy. He seems melodramatic.

The geek hovers a hand near her seated form, bites his lip, and pulls away. He keeps walking without saying anything. Poor loser.

He sits down near me and seems a bit crestfallen. God, should I care? I glare at the side of his head, lips pursed, and try to answer my own question. He begins to blur while I try to think of it. I get stuck in that strange phenomena that happens when you're very tired when you can only think of one thing, stuck in a loop. Unfortunately for me, I'm thinking of his name but I can't hear it in my mind. I keep thinking Brady, but I know that's wrong. The stripes on his shirt fall into a weird rainbow smear. I can't sleep.

He turns to me quizzically.

"Jesus." I say finally. He smiles a tiny bit. "I'm tired." I add defeatedly.

"It shows. Your eyes are _glazed, _man."

"Yeah I guess.." I fumble for something funny to say. "I guess you shouldn't take high-end pharmaceuticals before a staying-awake challenge."

His eyes widen in horror. "What? You could get kicked out for that!"

I laugh in slow motion. "No, I'm just, just kidding."

He presses the heel of his hand into his forehead, and begins a quiet and heaving laugh.

"That wasn't even a zinger, kid, calm down."

"I'm sorry, it's not what you said, you're just talking like you're totally out of it. And me too I guess. Oh my God, I'm tired. I almost fell asleep when I was trying to take a leak."

"I finished a 250-page book today without sleeping." I say smugly.

He nods with a toothy grin. "Good work Noah."

I'm surprised he knows my name, because I can't think of his.

"I'm losing my mojo now. I'm drowsy. I don't think I have the strength to go on!" I add a touch of mock angst to the last sentence.

"Believe in the force…"

"Ugh, you did _not_ just say that…"

He giggles. "Sorry, I like Star Wars."

"Yeah, but you don't show your love by making the most blatant possible reference."

"Oh?"

"No Yoda-speak either."

"So…um. Okay let me try. Oh, gee, Noah, it sure is getting cold out! We'll need to cut open Owen and hide inside him."

I snicker. "Good reference, absolutely horrid set-up."

"I was just making an example."

"I bet you don't even know what the creature was that got its guts diced."

"Um, yes I do! It's a _Tauntaun!"_

I turn away from him slightly and smile. "Don't like that somehow makes you a master geek just because you know your Star Wars."

"No, Cody is no master-geek. Cool people can like Star Wars too!"

It's 2009. Do people still care about coolness at this point? I thought with the advent of the internet, having geek smarts totally put you ahead of the pack. It seems to work that way with me. I realize at that moment that I've just learned his first name. I suddenly feel less tired now that I'm talking to someone. Something must be said on the necessity of maybe possibly making a friend or two here. Like a legitimate friend for purposes of friendliness and no monkey business or alliances.

"Okay then, Mr. Cool. What's your favorite of the Star Wars films."

"The second one!"

My face goes blank. "You mean…the fifth?"

"No I mean the one with Anakin and that red guy!" I shake my head sadly, with a voiceless utterance of 'no, just no.'

He smiles tightly. "Don't worry, I'm not that much of a noob. The sixth is actually my favorite. Nobody likes the prequels. I was just messing with you."

"You really need to learn a bit about humour."

"Sarcastic remarks isn't funny, it's just lying with a funny tone of voice!"

I can't argue with that. So I go back on topic. "I like the fourth best. I always had a thing for Han Solo. I wanted to be so snarky and badass my whole life." I hope it didn't sound weirdly gay for me to say I had 'a thing' for Han. Then again, this Cody kid seems too innocent to jump to such a conclusion.

"I always associated myself more with Luke." He glanced the other way. "Too bad Gwen's hair is way too short to do the cinnamon bun style."

I grimace. "You do know Luke and Leia are twins right?"

"Yeah, but they did kiss once!"

"And it was a huge mistake!"

"Well I figure if Gwen kisses that Trent dude it will be a huge mistake and then she'll succumb to her belligerent feelings for me."

I lie back. "Man, you have issues."

He looks a bit more hurt than he should. I just laugh lightly. This guy is lucky he's _not_ really popular at school. He would be instantly devoured. But here, talking about Star Wars? He's safe in his word of nerdy concerns. We can just talk about that for a while.

He knows a strangely huge volume about the technical specifications of the Millennium Falcon. I see right through any denial of his nerdy status, but I will not mock him for it. In my life, I've seen too many wonderful and complex kids dumb themselves down to appeal to the popular crowd. Maybe I've done it to some extent too, but I never forgot who I was. There's a difference between putting up a front and being internally confused.

He seems more at ease as he explains to me how hyperspeed works, and how asteroid fields aren't actually the way they are in the movie, and you'd never actually hit a damn thing. He moves his hands around a lot. What he's speaking of becomes more confusing, and I start to tire again. It's about three twenty AM.

He turns to me silently, as we're laying on our backs. I assume that means he's done talking.

I smile at him. "Here's a reference for you." I say, about the prompt of this conversation.

"If anyone ever tells you they love you, just say: 'I know.'"

He lets a rush of air escape his nose. "I don't think I could be so indignant if someone finally said that to me."

"I know."

Each time I look at Trent, his eyes are sometimes green, sometimes blue, and his height seems to waiver slightly. I don't remember him sitting this close to me. Where did he put the blue-haired girl? I guess she decided Cody was a better catch after all. He looks at me for a moment and opens his mouth.

"Hai stile. Voglio assaggiare. Il dolce ... piccante ... violento carne di plastica. Avvicinatevi, vi aviaria bello."

I give a dark and strangely horny giggle. I don't speak italian. I don't question why he's speaking italian. I slide a little nearer to him. His words aren't really in synch with his mouth as he continues:

"Stai sognando fiumi di nuovo. Você poderia me entender melhor se ..."

I don't remember lying down, but suddenly, I see the sky stretched above me. The smell of his body spray is less overwhelming many hours after application. He looks down at me. For a second, he has brown eyes, but after I blink they seem green again. He doesn't seem opposed when I wrap an arm around his waist. He wraps one around mine too.

I didn't question the italian, so I don't question why this Trent character thinks getting intimate with me at 3 AM, on TV, is a good idea. But it feels really, like _really_, awesome. I feel the warmth of his skin radiate against mine. I shouldn't do this, but I close my eyes to kiss him.

I'm angry, because suddenly things are going dark, and I can feel myself slipping into slumber just as I make contact. It's bizarre though, because habitually as you fall asleep things get darker around the edge instead of lighter. Orange sunlight bleeds into the corners of my field of vision, and hollow sounds begin to echo in my ears. I still feel stubbble-less skin against my lips. I'm dreaming.

Or I was. I think I stopped dreaming. It was a nice dream. I was dreaming of Trent.

And this is fucking Cody.

My eyelids snap open and his dark-ringed eyes slowly peel to look at me. For the briefest instant, I feel we both share the same empty space between brainwaves. How buddhist of us. But within about three seconds, we roughly untangle our bodies, scream into each others faces for good measure, and run.

Like, why.

That's the only thing I can say. Okay, not that kissing Trent would have been a good thing. Well fine, it would have been pretty awesome, but the only encounter I would ever want from him would be hushed and frantic moments of hormonal intimacy inside a mildew-ridden shower stall where no one would see. This wasn't so secretive. This was during a challenge, so nice job me, I just smashed both of my rules at once and blended them thoroughly in the process.

Cody ran very far. I ran approximately 100 centimetres before realizing my legs still weighed 190 pounds each, due to the exhaustion of last night. Returning to my favorite position, on my ass, I yawn and swallow hard. Trent never fell asleep, Cody ran away, and since it's at _least _7 am, if not later, I've definitely lost this challenge, so as much as it pains me, I return to my feet to make the trek back to my cabin for a proper rest.

If I were a predictable person, I would spent the rest of the morning huddled in the top bunk of my bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering what the meaning behind this morning's events were. But I'm not predictable, or at least, I'm less predictable than I am exhausted. So it takes in the neighbourhood of seven minutes for me to fall asleep. Part of me hopes that I can finish off my sexy Trent dream, but another side of me worries I'd wake up on top of Owen.

* * *

**I set the story in 2009 so that all the crazy new seasons can still stay in line. Actually, I originally set the story in 2008 but I couldn't bear to have all the characters turning 21 this upcoming year. Poor kids need to still wear the same outfits they have since 11th grade. Why don't they get new outfit models every season? I have the next 2 chapters on reserve so far, so I'm hoarding them until I'm always two chapters ahead of what I've published. Don't wanna keep the crowd waiting for all eternity of course. **

**I just found out that apparantly in total drama world tour, Noah does indeed wake up crushed under Owen. That was some interesting foresight on my part. **


	3. Sports Fiction

I would honestly rather lizard wrangling as the next challenge than what they actually made it. In all fairness, we've already had to do things that were legitimately damaging or threatening to our health, so playing a casual game of dodgeball is nothing in comparison, in fact, it's something you would expect in any _normal _summer camp or school gym.

But it brings back some god-awful memories to me. I'm glad that I managed to slip through high school without needing to take gym. I took PAL in grade 11. We went for walks, went to the pool like twice, and did asinine worksheets on the food pyramid. Physical education for the lazy man – I like it. As I was saying about bad memories – do I even need to outline that? I'm sixteen and five-sixths and I'm still only five and a half feet tall. I was always the only brown dude in my class, and I suck major dodgeballs at all sports, ever. Picked last, killed first, every shot.

I stare at Chef with eyebrows raised in absolute disinterest as he explains dodgeball's rules. Throughout, I hear his hard-assed Samuel L. Jackson voice morph into a chant of 'If you get the ball, hit Noah. Make sure Noah gets hurt. Rape Noah brutally every chance you get.' I try to maintain that look of perfect disinterest throughout, but I start to get a touch uncomfortable at the prospects. When I hear the words 'The first rule of dodgeball', I instinctively spit:

"Do not talk about dodgeball?"

It makes Owen chuckle, but I assume it's not in the 'LOL You made a Palahniuk reference!' way and rather a genuine 'you're so clever, I've never heard that before' way. I instantly realize I shouldn't try to be funny, because it will draw attention to me and make it much harder for me to avoid playing this stupid game, but if I was going to draw attention to myself, it may as well be in reference to ol' Chuck, an awesome author who gives his fellow gay guys a desperately needed dose of badassery.

When it comes time to play, I pull out a book and lounge on the bench. Seriously people, did you actually think I would even pretend to play? I figure they'd rather me just not get down on the floor and fail from the sidelines rather than get in the fray and somehow manage to tag _myself _out. I don't cut myself any slack about this. I might play clarinet, read comprehensively at 400 words a minute, and understand three and a half languages, but I've reached a degree of athletic retardation beyond the average nerd.

I would like to talk about how the game is going, but I'm mostly absorbed in my latest novel. It's in French this time, so background chatter seems indecipherable because I have my brain set on francophone mode. I think we're losing.

On occasion, I let out a sarcastic cheer of encouragement to my team. They're probably mad at me right now, but I internally promise them that I will be of good service when we reach the more intellectually based challenges. I can schmooze and I can think, what more do you need on a reality show? Gwen has been asleep on the bench for the majority of this engaging conquest anyway, and I don't see anyone flipping their shit at her, so I figure I'm fine.

Now that I think of it, this reminds me of junior high gym classes, when I'd do other stuff when I should have been playing sports. That's the whole reason I got into student council and class presidency and all that baloney – you always see those people walking around the school, cutting class, and screwing around talking about 'big (meaningless) decisions'. All I used to need to do in gym was raise my hand and say, 'Um, sir, I've got a thing.' And I could just leave like it was no one's business.

I peek up over my book briefly as my newfound tauntaun invading friend rides 'er solo. Lips pursed, I watch as he uses some kind of weird nerd magic to defy the laws of physics. Though better than phys-ed, _phy-ics _are not exactly my forte either so I don't bother to ponder how the heck he does what he does. Weird, weird kid.

Says the boy reading a book while he's supposed to be dodging balls.

Sometimes I catch the kid oogling me as I sit idly. Maybe he wants to smack me one because of my decided lack of effort, or maybe the little dweeb wants me to start spooning him again because he may or may not have attempted said sleepsnuggling on the next-to-comatose Gwen and struck out brutally. I trust neither will happen, and the thought floats away. Sorry, honey!

"Knock 'em out. Ra. Ra." I say, with not a hint of enthusiasm to be found.

Some other nerd on the opposing team does an epic job at defeating Owen. It's not often I will compliment somebody on their sports performance, but I'm genuinely impressed, if not a touch jealous that someone even geekier than me has the balance and form of a delicate but powerful onna-bugeisha. Then again he probably has four friend in life, two of them being his parents and one being a pet iguana or something, so I reassure myself I've got one over on him.

That dork is what kills us.

It's a bit shameful, really, that they'd allow someone with such a seeming lack of skills be the nail in their coffin. Were they even trying? He was performing fancy footwork and I never even saw him throw. I make an unimpressed face at Chris.

"What can I saw? Weak effort."

Heather looks at me disdainfully. She speaks but I mostly hear 'Mimimimi, blah blah, I'm a bitch but it's okay cause I'm sexy.' Huh. She has nice hair, so straight, damn Japanese people, they got all the good genetics on the Asian continent. I stare at one lock of her hair until she leaves me alone. I want to respect Heather for her amazing tactics are social manipulation, but I think it would be easier if she'd just keep her remarks pointed safely away from me.

That evening, the marshmallow ceremony begins. It's my first time here, because my team has never lost. I figure if there's, like, eleven of us, the odds of me getting cut are pretty slim. I do an analysis scan of my team mates. The blond girl is a major retard who didn't even know how to play the game and appears to be fornicating with some douche on the other team. Gwen slept the whole time, and then I can't really judge many of the others because I forget the names of the stout girl, the black girl, and the pompous tanned guy in the green shirt.

I sit on a stump and wait for my name to be called. This ceremony has the convenient side-effect of teaching me everyone's name. A miniscule shot of anger shoots through me when Trent's name is called, because he high-fives the pompous tanned guy, and I get this nagging feeling I hate that guy and I don't want him getting positive attention.

The names are called one by one.

The smug look on my face dissolves as my name remains unspoken. The frown quickly morphs into a look of disgust.

"Well, good luck!" I say pathetically. "Cause you…just voted off the only person with any brains on this team!"

LaShauna (Or something. I only know her name because of marshmallows) calls me a 'turkey' before I leave. Someone with an ass and chest as pumped up as hers shouldn't be calling _me _a turkey. I'm beyond pissed. They toss their 'mallows at me and everything.

"What-ever. I'm outta here."

I let my voice slip into that gayer register that I get into when I'm in a really bitchy mood, but I don't care because I'm pissed.

Maybe I shouldn't have been so damn focused on not embarrassing myself. I will probably wind up being the only person to make it through this show without revealing his pixelated privates to the world, but at what cost?

At the cost of 100 000$, that's the cost. All because I've had some bad experiences with dodgeballs starting way back in the good ol' kindergarten days of 1997.

I duck into my cabin for a moment to collect my stuff. Lo and behold, the only person in there is Cody. He catches me grumbling and looks at me. I imagine he's seeking clearer phrasing, so I humour him.

"I can't believe it."

He doesn't speak but he tilts his head quizzically.

"I could have been helpful, I hope they all know that. Not my fault I suck at sports. Didn't wanna make a fool of myself." I turn to face him as I cram my fourteenth and final book into my suitcase. "You know the feeling, don't you?"

His gaze becomes more curious. I backtrack slightly. "Uh, no offence, but you don't seem like you'd be the guy to get picked first for every kickball game."

"You're right." He replies simply.

"Stupid sports challenge. I said they aren't my forte. I had to get the boot for the _one thing _that is a severe flaw of mine."

His expression changes again, almost to a look of disgust. "Being bad at sports isn't your _fatal flaw, _Noah. Being a smug asshole is."

I'm surprised he'd say something that bold. I want to respond, but I don't want to complicate things. I just wanna go home, watch the show from my own TV, and root for Heather, despite the fact she almost surely played a part in my elimination. I grab my suitcase, look at the floor, glance at Cody briefly and leave.

I head to the dock. The cameras follow me, but I don't speak, so I figure they won't use this footage. I leave the island. I shouldn't feel a tiny bit relieved, but I do.

I arrive on another dock within half an hour. Before me, there is a lavish bungalow-style house with huge angular windows in front. I bet this is where Chris lives, where Chef makes him elegant dishes of sashimi using fish with actual names instead of hillbilly handfishing random swimmers out of the Wawanakwa lake, chopping their heads off, and calling it sushi. I bet the soy sauce isn't even salted motor oil.

I wonder how long I will need to wait until I can go home. I wonder if I'll get a plane, or if my parents need to come get me, which I frankly hope they don't because I would hear nothing but whining the whole way back, and that's if they _don't _bring any of the sibs. I raise an eyebrow and look around, slowly pacing to the other end of the dock.

"Hellooooo?"

A woman comes up to me with a clipboard.

"Hello Mr….Noah."

My face contorts.

"You've been eliminated from the Island"

"Don't remind me…"

"As such, you're going to spend the duration of the competition here, the Playa des Losers."

"Jesus. Christ."

"There's food, swimming pools, entertainment centre, and 24/7 medical care."

I don't even need to ask why that last thing is advertised. I think I already know.

"Since you're one of the first ones here, you can, uh, go explore, and when you choose a room, come find me to be assigned keys."

I inhale deeply through my nostrils and prepare for the worst. Upon entering the house, I see that it's honestly very lavish compared to the absolute hellhole everyone else is experiencing on the island. It doesn't seem booby-trapped or anything. I think this house legitimately has our pleasure and relaxation as its primary motive. This shocks me, but pleases me all the same.

I choose a room at the very end of the second-floor hallway. Nobody will bother me there. Not that anyone really can bother me here, because demographic of this house consists of two scary-looking people I've never spoken to.

They have a Nintendo Wii. Not bad.

Instead of hoping that someone worth spending time with gets eliminated soon, I relish in my solitude.

I would like to say that I gained some significant life experience during the next several days at the loser resort, but that isn't true. I essentially just went on my gay little walks, emphasis on 'little' because if I said I was going for a walk, I'd get too lazy to continue somewhere along the shoreline, sit down for a while, and walk back up to the resort to eat a brownie.

I played Super Smash Brothers Brawl on the Wii for hours to occupy my time. I think I finished single player mode with almost every character. I like to pretend that I'm good with Ike, but I only play as him because I think he has a sexy voice. I associate more with Falco because of his piss-poor attitude and big nose. And I've always laughed at Pit because of his lame outfit, but upon closer examination, he sort of reminds me of the gap-toothed wonder back on the island, which only makes me laugh even more.

This morning I woke up uncomfortable. All the Nintendo I've been playing had the odd after-effect of me dreaming that Trent was Ike from Brawl, with a sword and the whole deal. I don't remember who I was, probably something lame like Diddy Kong. Anyway, it would have turned pretty sexy if it weren't for the fact that Owen turned into Giga Bowser and my two sisters Madeleine and Sarah we, like, the Ice Climbers, and Owen ate them. At some point I think I was getting freaky with Ike, but then he turned out to be Marth. If I actually was Diddy Kong, the whole event was downright disturbing.

I woke up at 9:45, ate some granola, and just sat at the breakfast table for awhile.

That's where I am now. I'm pretty sure a new camper is getting eliminated today. The idea of this lost its excitement ages ago. The first person to come after me was Justin, and he's just plain shitty. Then it was Katie, at least I think it's Katie, I imagine Sadie is the fat one, and Katie isn't really a complete human being without Sadie. Followed by Tyler. God bless Tyler, he tries, but he sucks so badly. I believe if I tried as hard as him to be good at sports, I'd be about as terrible.

I could detail every other thing I do throughout this day, but the entire span of time seems to be touched with an undercurrent of nervousness. I am not sure if I can put a finger on it. I think it's the internal feeling that if someone doesn't show up with an open ear for me to bitch to in the next couple days, I might violently explode from pent-up complaining. Nothing eventful has happened except when Eva wanted to pick a fight with Tyler for 'cheating' at pool. I should have tried to explain to her that Tyler didn't intentionally get his hand stuck in the corner hole, it's just the kind of thing he's tragically prone to. But instead I read, which is what I always do when there's a lack of stimulating company.

Unfortunately, I only have a few novels left, and as if they were my last health-recovery potions in a particularly sprawling dungeon level, I need to keep them rationed for when they are necessary. There isn't much reading material around these places except for magazines. The worst part of this is the fact that I need to read Seventeen in order to entertain myself, because I feel less ashamed of that than if I were to indulge in People, Cosmo, or The Sun.

Seventeen was about twenty seconds away from convincing me I should start flat-ironing my hair when I realized that the time for our new housemate is arriving. I saunter to the front door. The clipboard lady is there first, and she props the door open with a hip. I watch from the stairs as she wheels in the latest loser. He's bandaged up pretty thoroughly, like a cartoon character who fell 20 stories.

I tackle the last few steps and stride through the hallway, beside the clipboard lady. I enquire nonchalantly.

"What happened here?"

"Cody was mauled by a bear."

My eyes widen. "Shouldn't he go to a legitimate doctor, or something?"

"He was already there. He should be fine. The excessive bandaging is just a precaution."

When she says 'precaution' I hear 'attention grabber'. They let a sixteen year old get attacked by a bear on TV, and then swaddled him for sympathy. How sadistic.

This show so isn't getting a second season.

* * *

**I think I'm going towards a more vignetty style with this story, basically ignoring filler and stupid stuff and just skipping to things that actually matter. The chapters are also getting longer...the next one is literally triple this. Anywayz yeah. I want my story to get popular :') I bet I sound really lame in these author comments. Well just listen to the story then, don't listen to lame airheaded author, listen to smart snarky Noah.**


	4. Contemporary Fantasy

On July 16th, I decide to get the straight poop from Cody on the circumstances surrounding his mauling. Part of me thinks that there could perhaps going out of my way to interact with a boy who not only got fondled by me in his sleep, but also decided to deliver his wimpier version of tearing me a new one just before I left, could cause some awkwardness. But another part of me is longing for the days where I could just sit down and listen to people rant about their lives, however inconsequential and meaningless their ramblings were. I want to hear someone complain with quietly voiced snark instead of with their flailing arms for a change.

Clipboard lady had told me on my first night that there was a decently equipped medical ward here. I assume that's where these insane sadists ditched mangled Cody. I can only imagine that it's a pea-coloured canvas tent like on M*A*S*H, with surgeons up to their wrists in blood. It's in the lowest level, in the back, where they keep things like barbecues and other crap that the guests probably shouldn't touch because we'd manage to kill ourselves with it. In which case, all things considered, makes it sensible they'd put the infirmary right next door.

The infirmary isn't exactly a 'ward', more like a single room. It's bigger than the average school nurse's office, but God forbid if _two _people decided to play sodium hydroxide supersoaker fight, because there seems to only be capacity for one person. I peer in timidly to make sure he isn't being attended to by any nurses or gigantic black chefs pretending to be nurses before I enter.

To my surprise, Cody isn't wrapped in head-to-toe bandages. He is shirtless, with a wrap around his chest, and a rigid plastic contraption fixed to his arm with peach-coloured bandages. He has a bit of patchy discolouration on his skin, but considering that he was apparently _mauled by a bear, _he doesn't look worse for wear. I slowly step in, and he immediately notices me. His mouth forms an expression not upset enough to imply he's unhappy to see me, but not overjoyed either. Almost confused.

"Hey." I say, for lack of a better conversation starter.

"Hi." He replies. "Why you here?"

Though his tone is pleasant, I raise my hands in mocking defensiveness.

"Hey, don't worry, if you start going into cardiac arrest or something, I promise I'm not too lazy to run and get help."

He smiles warmly. "I would laugh a little harder if it didn't tug my stitches. He points at his chest.

"That's…." I say, scooting a plastic chair nearer to his bedside. "Actually why I'm here."

He appears alert. "You launching an investigation or something?"

"No, I'm just curious, like, how are you still alive?" A wrinkle appears in my forehead. "Like, I thought you got attacked by a friggin' bear."

"Ah, that's the magic of TV for you…" He says lightly. I remain unimpressed.

"Let me get this straight. They _faked _a bear attack. To make good TV."

"Nope, the bear really did paw at me once or twice, but although you probably think the camera crew consists of evil people, they actually didn't just sit there and film and tell the bear to attack with his u0pstage arm instead."

"So they intervened."

"Yeah, they wrangled that guy right away."

"So you go out with what, just a scratch?"

"Well I kinda messed up my wrist, hence the wrappy thingy, and he did claw the shit out of my chest, which, if it didn't hurt so much, would leave a really badass scar."

"The pain will probably make the scar more badass." I tease.

His eyes light up. "You really think so?"

I close my eyes and form a tight smile. "How many 11th-graders can go around showing off a _bear attack _scar?"

He places a hand on his chest thoughtfully. "If I can't brag about winning a hundred grand, this isn't so bad I guess." He looks off at nothing in particular for a moment. "Awesome." I'm glad that I somehow made this kid feel like a traumatic animal attack that will probably result in bad dreams and him donating all his childhood teddy bears to value village feel good about it.

"The fullbody cast was just for show, then?" He nods.

"So…how is it here, outside the infirmary? It won't be long til I leave, I think they just wanted me to avoid getting my stitches dirty or wet for a few days and figured quarantining me is the best way to do it."

"Well, there's a pool, there's a hot-tub, there's waterfront property…."

He glowers at me. "Anything fun to do that isn't, you know, _wet?" _

"Xbox and Nintendo, if you're into that stuff…" I add a touch of sarcasm to my remark because I know he's definitely into that kind of stuff. "The food is pretty good too. Not exactly gourmet, but like, extreme high end cafeteria. Like rich kid food."

He groans when I mention food. "I'm hungry…could you like, get me something? It doesn't cost money, right?"

"Agh, I'm sure I could squeeze it into my busy relaxation schedule. What do you want? They got really awesome sundried tomato soup today…"

"Yes, some of that sounds wicked. "

I turn towards the door.

"And some cookies too?" He smiles.

"Sure thing."

"And Noah?" I roll my eyes slightly, but the innocence in his voice sucks me in.

"Could you throw on that movie?" He points vaguely at the TV.

I pick it up. "No way. You like Miyazaki?"

He smiles like a maniac who is ever so slightly high on painkillers. "Of course! He's like, a genius or something. I like Princess Mononoke!"

"I've always been more of a Spirited Away person myself…it's like the best movie ever."

"Haha, the frogs!" We both snicker at something that's not quite a joke.

"So…this one?" I ask, holding up Howl's Moving Castle.

He affirms this. It annoys me in a funny way, because I decide right then that I'm going to have to walk _all the way back here _in order to sit down, and watch this movie with him. He might be a desperate nerd, but he's a desperate nerd _with taste. _

"Noah." He says, one last time when I almost successfully made it to the door uninterrupted.

"Whaaaaat." I drone.

"….I like you better when you're being nice."

"As soon as you're able to walk, I'm not your bitch." I say flatly, but with a subtle smile.

He responds simply with: "Thank you!"

* * *

So now I'm lazily reclining on a hard plastic chair in Cody's recovery room, sock feet propped on his bed, eating cookies and discussing the validity of choosing Emily Mortimer's raspy, British voice to play Sophie. Then we briefly argue over the validity of Disney owning the rights to the all the English dubs of Miyazaki films. I shut him down immediate citing good translation, no loss of material, and excellent casting. At least he's learning not to mess with me.

I feel happy, actually, because he's smart and nobody else is. Okay, if I had to use internet terminology to describe him, I would say 'rather noobish'. He acts with such bravado at times, but deep inside, and by deep I mean under one millimetre of fairly transparent coolness, he's a robot-loving geek. Maybe if he just let that be his image instead of this fake cool guy, he'd actually get a date. I feel a bit hypocritical now, because you're probably thinking that since I 'pretend to be popular' I'm totally doing the same thing as him, but you're wrong, because you know what, maybe some people just have a multi-faceted personality.

Maybe I could give him tips or something.

When the movie is over, he again asks me about living arrangements.

"What are the rooms like? Are they better than this?"

"Better than a motel, not quite a hotel."

"Oh…?" I sense a subtle lack of comprehension.

"They're nice, the beds are comfy, but they're small. It's okay though because there's a lot of stuff to catch your interest outside the room, so you basically just need it to sleep."

"I was just wondering, cause I think I'm getting out of here soon."

"When you do…" I add. "Choose room 108."

"Why?" he asks.

"Cause I'm 106" I say with a smile.

The nurse comes in to fondle him some more, or something. Judging by his rate of recovery, that's the only conceivable reason for him to still be in here. I swing my legs back onto the floor and head to the door.

"Later."

* * *

It's the strangest thing, I feel happier now. I've spent so much of my life rolling my eyes at the nerds. I know I'm a bit of one myself, but more like, the sort of nerd that gives gadgets to James Bond or the guys who pull off such an elaborate scam job that instead of throwing them in jail, the government takes them on as techno-spies or something. I am a nerd mafia boss. I can manipulate lesser nerds – like casual band geeks, math whizzes, and larpers . I can use them as currency. I can promise them increased stature among the 'normals' if they are inclined to desire it.

I'm a true diplomat.

But when I've floundered and failed at everything I'd set out to do here within a few days, I realize playing any of these games of discrete liaisons is completely pointless now. The cameras are off, and I'm in a land even less permanent than the transitory nature of high school. Therefore, I can take a vacation away from mingling in the meaningless affairs of others.

For that reason, I'm sitting here playing Left 4 Dead with Cody

He left the hospital room today. He still has bandages over the scarring injury on his chest, and he's forgone the sweater-vest thing for a loose green t-shirt as to not mess with his probably gangrenous and bear-slime ridden wound. We both sit with the backs of our heads smashed into the edge of the cold leather sofa, seated on the floor. It doesn't feel right to play video games on a sofa. You have to pain your butt on the ground.

"You wanna be _Francis?_"

Cody laughs at my choice in character. I select an angry tattooed man in a leather vest.

"He hates everything, and is vocal about how much he hates the things he hates. I figured it was a sure thing."

He chooses a neurotic black guy in a tie, so I don't see how my choice is weird. He dies over and over, and I repeatedly need to go rescue him.

"I thought you said you were good at video games." I jab.

"I can't play shooters!"

When our characters get into an elevator together, I swing an axe at the general direction of his character.

"You suuuck…" I slowly say.

"You know what?" He says briefly. I flinch a tiny bit because I don't want him releasing any nerd rage on me. "I wish that Total Drama Island was on TV. I wonder how everyone is doing."

"How much has aired so far?"

"The episode you get the boot is airing next week. I hate the backlog. I mean, we always know who's going home but I want to see the final version of….actually, what time is it?"

I check my watch. "Seven twenty seven?"

"Aw yeah!" He jumps up from our position on the ground and grabs the remote, switching from the game system input to satellite TV. He scrolls through the channels until he reaches Teleteen.

"Yes! It's on! It's the episode where we didn't sleep!" He turns to me with a joyous expression. I briefly grimace, but it seems like he doesn't have any uncomfortable memories of the rude awakening that day.

The dizzying theme song boots up. I notice that the opening features me sitting with Ezekiel, even though we were never actually close at all. I think they knew we'd be out really early so they just jammed a pair of losers together. The episode is centred a lot on Eva, probably as an omen of her nearing demise. I keep an eye out for myself. I appear briefly running beside Heather. Why am I running? I never run.

"The editing on this show is expressing an inaccurate portrayal of my personality. Since when do I run?"

"They didn't even show shots of me…"

"Oh wait. I take that back. They've got something right." I say, as I watch past self get slammed onto a table by Owen. I hadn't really passed out, or at least passed out due to lack of oxygen or anything else that would warrant CPR, but I figured keeping my eyes shut would work to my advantage. Seeing as I got to complete the race slung over Owen's shoulder instead of having to carry my own weight, I guess it did.

"I'm just lucky I opened my eyes before he started mouth to mouth."

Cody laughs, but quickly cuts himself off with a tiny squeal when Gwen appears in a confessional. I roll my eyes at his seeming obsession with the weird goth girl, as Heather called her. But Trent appears beside her a moment later, and I can't help but feel like a bit of a hypocrite when a smile tugs at my mouth. I notice the both of them are getting a lot of screen time this episode. It's funny, because the whole time I sat a couple feet away watching their lame little relationship bloom over the course of that awakeathon.

"It could be way worse." Television Trent says.

"Oh yeah? How?" asks Television Gwen

"I could be stuck here without you to talk to."

A look of discontent flashes across TV's Heather's face, and I agree with her disdain, in quantity though not in cause. A very small growl escapes the both Cody and I. He immediately notices this.

"What, you on Team Cody?"

"What the _hell _is Team Cody."

"You think I could have been with Gwen instead of Trent."

I give him an 'are you serious' look. "Um. No."

He rolls his head. "S'okay, I'm not even mad, bro. You wanna know what I did a challenge or two before I got kicked off, and mauled?"

I give him a mildly disinterested smirk. The show cuts to a Wendy's commercial, so suppose now is as good a time as any for story time.

"I set them up!" he says. "I mean, it wouldn't be fair for me to try and seduce her away from the man she really wants." He says this with a hint of egotism but also a hint of disappointment. "I should use my people skills for good, not for selfish needs."

"How noble." I say sarcastically. "Yours is a talent that should be shared with the world."

"I know! I hope that if I can't have her, they have a very long and prosperous relationship and always consider me a great buddy that helped them get together and I hope I can be the MC at their wedding and stuff it would be –"

"You're insane." I say offhandedly, with a breathy chuckle.

He makes a pained, gap-toothed smile. "It wasn't easy."

I wish I could tell him they _probably _would have gotten together without his help, but for once I actually don't want to needlessly hurt someone's feelings. I don't think I've been in love before, but I've read enough love stories to know that sometimes living in a thinly veiled maya instead of the reality of rejection is much easier. The show returns from break.

The mild intensity of the previous conversation breaks when we both laugh at Cody's unfortunate choice of pillow, resulting in his getting copious amounts of Owen gas passed into his face.

"That seems unpleasant." I say.

"It was. It definitely was."

"Not as unpleasant as this…" I groan, as Trent and Gwen reappear with their drabbling game of twenty questions.

"I wonder if they'll show any of our conversation? We were having _awesome epic chat time _right beside them…"

"Doubtful. Our little romance isn't quite as interesting to the home viewer as theirs."

"They get a lot of screen time." He says. "Not that I'm complaining though. Gwen still looks beautiful even with bags under her eyes."

"Hey, I'm not complaining either!"

"Aw, what? You don't like her too, do you?"

At that exact moment, Trent appears, waving his hands around yelling 'yip yip yip yip!'

"I wasn't talking about her." I add poignantly.

"Oh?" He looks at the screen as the camera closes in on Trent. "_Ohh._ I didn't know you…"

I cock an eyebrow slightly. He continues. "Were like…_that._"

I cock my eyebrow further. "Not exactly observant, are we honey?" I add the 'honey' for good measure. "I mean, come on. Think back on all those times I said 'what-ever-' with that oddly limp-wristed gesture, I … " I snicker. "I'm not always proud of acting stereotypical, but at least it could allow some to take the hint."

He gets a glazed look in his eyes, as if every time he heard me say 'What-_ever' _in that really gay way is playing back like a little movie in his head. "Well…" he says slowly. "My parents always told me not to make assumptions. At least I think that's what they meant."

I chuckle at the irony. At that very moment, our awkward little instance of awakening flashes on screen. The kisses that I had placed on his ear. It's probably the only screen time we get together the whole episode, and I think the only time I've heard my own voice the whole time, too. Screaming in a very un-manly, and un-hetero way.

"Aw, what. They showed _that. _The only time we appear this episode, and it's for…_that." _I say.

He looks at the screen, then at me again. "Oh…that explains a lot."

"What?"

"The spooning….with a dude…"

I nab a sofa cushion and toss it at him. "Oh, shut up, I was sleeping! Don't flatter yourself." He throws the pillow back weakly. It misses me entirely and lands on the floor. We laugh. I can tell the rest is going to be more Gwen and Trent nonsense for the rest of the episode, because I distinctly recall Gwen being the last one to fall asleep. Trent's eyes roll back in his head as though he suffered an aneurysm, and he collapses to the ground.

I take a breath.

"You wanna know why it _really _happened?"

"The awkward…morning…thing?"

"Yeah." He appears alert. I continue. "I had a dream about Trent."

He snorts.

"He was speaking Italian. "

"Ooh, sexy. I might have been dreaming of Gwen too. Regardless, it felt kinda cool to have someone get that close to me."

My expression goes blank.

"Like, no, don't, well I just mean, I don't get a lot of hugs or anything, don't have many touchy friends. Just like…my parents. It was weird. It was comfy. It was weird."

I smile in seeming comprehension. "Same." I say shortly. "Though…" I start, "I begin to like Trent less and less."

"Ha, why, cause he _stole my girl?"_

"No, because he has an obnoxiously hipstery personality. You know, not having a crush on anyone is a very liberating feeling. You should try it sometime."

"Love only hurts if you make it hurt."

I do not understand what he means by this.

I stand in the threshold between the kitchen and the veranda, and Trent leans on the outside of the house, outside. He's smoking. I didn't know he smoked. It seems more like something Duncan would do. He looks at me for an instant and a tiny smile tugs at the side of his lips. My legs feel like honey as I step out. It looks like it's twilight outside, so I really have no idea why I'm out here at this hour, and I don't remember there being three barbecues, but something about Trent's expression draws me out of the house.

"Gwen's bangin' Cody now." He says.

I make a satisfied expression as if to say, 'not bad.' At least he accomplished what he set out to do, even though Trent has been tossed to the wayside.

"He can't lift a pumpkin." He seems to say, though his voice sounds cloudy.

I timidly approach him. His cigarette disappears and his green eyes stare into mine. I suddenly realize that I 'can't lift a pumpkin' either, but nonetheless, he embraces me. When I open my eyes we're in my room. I roll on top of him, grabbing a fistful of blue sheets. This is amazing. Wait, _blue _sheets?

This is my bedroom back at home. How did we get here?

Cody knocks on my door.

"Man. You in there?"

I open my eyes. One of those shitty Seventeen magazines is crushed under my body.

"Are you sleeping or something, it's like eight PM."

I groan. "What do you _want _Cody?"

"Ezeke…Ezeki…just open the door, please, I don't wanna yell."

I comply

"Ezekiel said he's never played a Mario game. Like. Any of them. Not even Mario Party. I think we gotta show him."

"You want…to hurt Ezekiel's feelings?"

"Yeah! No! I mean. We gotta play, man, it will be fun!" I snicker.

My latest weird sexy Trent dream begins to dissolve in my mind. It got me a bit stiff, if you know what I mean, but I don't think Cody notices or cares. I make a pit stop to the washroom to rinse out my nasty nap-mouth.

As I stand in front of the sink, the last solid remnants of my dream cling to the interior of my neurocranium. It is somewhat worthy of a laugh that I'm having rather lasciviousthoughts about the guy that has gotten in the way of any lascivious thoughts belonging to Cody. I flush at the thought of Cody having sexy dreams about Gwen. The idea of him being a vessel of pleasure for a woman a head taller than him is outrageous at best. He probably thinks he's a real stud, too. Maybe he sees himself the way that sleep-Noah sees Trent. And by that, I mean 'absolutely irreconcilable with the real-life version.'

He knocks at the door, and says my name is a whiny and childish voice. I can't help but smile. Usually, I hate when people cling to me, but that's usually because their comprehension of things I like to talk about is minimal. I'm not saying he knows everything, but he expresses a refreshing willingness to listen to me with open ears and an open mind, and that really feeds to my ego.

"Coming." I call out.

I leave the bathroom and meet Cody in the hallway.

"Let's kick some gangsta ass back to home school." I say

"Word, big ups playa, my nig-" He stops himself as I shake my head in bewilderment.

"Let's leave the new jargon to Zeke, mkay?"

He grins brightly as we head downstairs.

* * *

Trent was eliminated today. Ever since Harold came to the playa, things have gone from absolutely dead, to wishing things were _more _dead. Katie and Sadie stay in their own world like they always have. Eva and Tyler have developed a small competitive rivalry that results in any simple task becoming a sport. Ezekiel's been doing research on how to be urban and modern. Justin's been manipulating Beth's hormonal and depressing attraction towards him in order to get her to do random stuff for him. I've been warming up to Cody, somewhat out of desperation, because most other people disturb me in some way or another. All throughout this, Courtney has been stalking through the house in war paint, wanting to get revenge on Harold. It's funny how she, the obsessive one, the control freak, is the one that wreaks all the havoc.

The first morning Trent got here, I sit near him as we eat our lunch. We sit on the porch furniture outside. Even though we were on the same team, we'd never conversed very much. It's weird to be seeing him, I think, in three dimensions, because I've been seeing him on TV regularly. And someplace worse than TV, as well. It's different. Odd. As if his head is too close to mine.

That might be a contributing factor into why I can't formulate anything coherent to say to him.

"So…how has life been here at the playa, man?" he says.

"Boring." I spit between sips of my drink.

"Leave it to you to have a positive attitude."

I think for a second. "Not as exciting as the island, but nowhere near as deadly. I think it's a good trade-off. I'd rather unbroken limbs than excitement."

"Cool, cool."

I make an unimpressed face at him.

He still seems stranger in 3D, like his head is too large. Even though I feel a brief warm shudder as he sits near me, I realize I don't want to speak to him. The only things he could ever give me are things he'd never offer.

I slip out of my stool and take my dishes into the little room beside the food buffet to be washed. As soon as I step out, I'm startled by Cody standing beside me, hands clasped and sporting a shit-eating grin. I have a looming feeling he's to say 'you like Krabby Patties, _don't you, _Squidwards?'. Instead, he says:

"So…talking to Trent?"

My shoulders slump. "Before you say anything, I don't like him."

"Yes you do! I mean, you had sexy dreams about him and everything."

I perform a gesture of 'hands up!'

"Okaaay, Cody, can we talk about this elsewhere?"

We slowly make our way back outside, down the stairs, and onto a picnic table situated about halfway across the house's property, talking all the while.

"Okay, okay. So _you're _saying, you oogled him and had funky dreams about him, and you _don't _have a crush on him?"

"Yes." I say, unwavering.

He doesn't believe me. "So what _did _you talk about?"

"Honest truth? Nothing. He's boring as hell. I don't know what Gwen sees in him."

"What do _you _see in him?"

"Nothing."

"This doesn't make sence."

"Ok, his smile, his eyes, all that stuff, but beyond a superficial level, nothing."

"So then why do you like him?"

"I don't!" I say, beginning to get exasperated.

At this point we're sitting on the table part of the picnic table, feet planted on the seat. "He's _just hot, _that's all. Haven't you ever heard of…" I search for a word. "Hit it and quit it?"

He giggles. "I don't think!"

"Um…fuck and chuck?"

He laughs again. "I never heard these terms but I get what you're saying. Wow, I didn't know gay people could be so heartless."

"I didn't know 'playas' could be so naïve."

"So you would like…" he lowers his voice slightly "_bang _him, but not date him?"

"In a fantasy land, perhaps. It would probably be awkward in real life."

"Well, you don't, like, strike me as a romantic type very much."

"You don't say? You seem like you are. I feel like…" I chose my words wisely because I don't want him to freak out. "I feel like you've had other Gwens."

"There's only one Gwen." He says, with a pathetically wistful sound.

I sigh. "What I mean is, you've felt this before, I bet. You want people to think you're such a suave lady killer. But every time, you find someone else to have a crush on, and you don't become a player, because you're blinded to every single piece of tail that isn't attached to the singular object of your obsession."

He makes a sort of embarrassed smile. "If I didn't get rejected so often, I wouldn't need to always have a crush. I'd just have a girlfriend."

"What can you _possibly _do so wrong?" I eye him up and down. He doesn't have massive amounts of acne, and he isn't overweight, so already he's got something over many, many nerds.

"I just…don't talk." He shifts. "Haven't you ever had a severe, severe crush? I try to speak, I screw up, so I don't speak. "

"Not really." I shrug. "I figure being in love is a load of bullshit. You place all your feelings in the hands of somebody else. You pretty much give another person permission to alter how your feel or to ruin your day. Doesn't sound smart to me."

He shuts his eyes. I don't need to be saying this. He knows.

"It doesn't need to be that way. You just need to…let go." He says with a sigh.

I eye him inquisitively. He continues.

"Sometimes, you reach a point where you know for certain you can't have the person you want. So you can either avoid them and totally modify your daily route to avoid bumping in to them, or you can accept they don't like you and vicur- …vicariously enjoy your one-sidedness." He looks to me for a response, but I have none. "I guess if I was a different guy, I would pray that Trent has a secret gay side and he'd hook up with you, and Gwen would run to me, but I figure there are at least…" He holds his hands out in silence for a moment. "Five, or six, at least, people she'd sooner go to than me."

I hold in a small laugh, trying to mentally flip through everyone on the island and come up with five or more Gwen would take over Cody.

"So that's why I hooked them up. Make her happy so I can be half-happy."

Depressing.

I respond. "See, I don't feel any of this nonsense about Trent. He can date Sadie for all I care. Maybe I let go since the very start. Accept it and observe. No skin off my nose. Thus, I do not 'like' him." I add air quotes for good measure.

He gets a smug look on his face. "Ooh, I think someone's scared of failure."

I raise my eyebrows, slightly offended. "How."

"You are, like, incredible at all school stuff, and you get along with people superficially, and you don't wanna fall for anyone because you don't want your crappy love life to be the one downfall of your perfect image."

I actually roll the thought around for a minute, he might be on to something. Superficially. He speaks again. "Then again, I don't blame you, cause I guess it's more likely that the person you like won't like you back when you're gay."

"This is true." I mull his hypothesis for a moment more. "And despite your failures, you aren't afraid of failing?"

"Pity points can get you places" He smiles at this sentence, but with a crinkle at the edge of his mouth that seems to indicate the slightest disgust with the naked truth behind it. This quickly disappears. "But whatevs." He says, regaining a slight sunny disposition. "That stuff happens all the time to me. It only hurts if you let it."

This time I understand what he means.

I don't really have Trent dreams anymore. Now that I've glimpsed to what extent Cody projects himself upon Trent, the implications of having Trent dreams have become awkward. The only time I had a dream with Trent in it, it really had nothing do with him at all, it was just a 40-second vignette of me playing video games with Cody and he was wearing Trent's shirt for some reason. I pick up on the symbolism immediately, and decide to inform my subconscious to avoid having dreams about Trent henceforth.

Not that I didn't learn anything from my little discourse with Cody, but the main message I got was to know when to fold 'em. Not that I really had anything in my proverbial hand anyway. Actually, the _main _main thing I'm realizing is, oh my God, Trent sucks so much. He's decided to drag out the ol' guitar lately, and I am constantly subjected to that voice that never enchanted me in the first place. Eighty percent of his songs are love songs. A hundred percent of the love songs are for Gwen. Every time I hear that same basic chord progression expulsing itself from his instrument, I long for the days where I was alone here with Eva and Ezekiel, because Ezekiel had books, like me, and Eva had steroids. Or her MP3 player, but mostly steroids, probably.

Maybe the slight sexual tension I have towards Trent has combined with my annoyance with him to create a real monstrous feeling of wanting to sort of snap when he's around. I make the mistake of walking by him as he plays guitar on a lawn chair.

"Hey Noah! Buddy!" turned away from him, I grimace. I steel myself and turn around.

"What?"

"Have a request?" He says with a grin.

"I don't listen to music." I say.

"Come on, bro."

I sigh. "Okay, I do listen to music, I don't know why I said that. I probably sound stupid."

"I bet I can play whatever you like."

I smirk.

"Play the Beastie Boys."

I walk away and he just sort of stares at his guitar, dumbfounded. I think any attraction I have to him is roughly the same thing as any heterosexual being attracted to Lindsay. Fun to look at, suicide-inducing to actually have and keep.

Okay, maybe not quite so bad.

* * *

I don't know how it came to this, but Cody Andersen is my best friend.

My real best friend, my friend that I can sit with and talk with, without thinking of the meaning to any of it. Not a friend at school, many of whom I simply tolerated. So many of those were either so stupid I looked down on them, or so bullied and unpopular I pitied them. But with him, I don't bother with any thoughts of hierarchy. There's only two of us. It can't be a pyramid, a food-chain, or an assembly line. It can only be two people pushing and pulling, linked together, conversing, enjoying each other's company. Happy, carefree nerds, spending a summer locked up together.

I'm lying in Cody's bed right now. He's beside me. He stares up at the ceiling, making hand gestures. He doesn't look at me, but my head it turned towards him. I like how I can still sort of see that he has messed up teeth from the side. I stare at the light freckles on his nose. He speaks with such enthusiasm.

"It was, like, one of the best moments of my life, man. Like, being in robotics club doesn't make you cool, ever, but when I single-handedly won awards for my school? I felt…respected. Like it doesn't matter how nerdy you are once you're _really _good at something. Don't you think that Bill Gates was like, an uber nerd growing up? But now he's rich as hell and everyone respects him. You just need to be good to get respect. "

It's before suppertime. The house is beginning to fill up more and more. Since Cody arrived two weeks ago, Beth, Sadie, Harold, Courtney, Bridgette and Trent have escaped the tortures of the island in favour of relaxation in this resort. Except now that Courtney is here livid psycho bitch mode, it's not exactly peaceful. So here, at the end of the first floor hallway, is the only convenient place to escape the constant screaming, other than the pool, but the doctor said to Cody he still needs to wait three more days before he can get his scar wet.

He turns his head to me and smiles. I smile too. We're very close together and it feels comfortable.

"I prefer to use intimidation techniques." I say. "People respect me because I can back them into a corner in twenty different ways if I tried. Most of which involve superior intellect and rhetoric skills."

"Rhetorical skills." He echoes. "I wish I could be cool smart like you. You're like, Sherlock Holmes smart. I'm like… Screech from Saved by the Bell smart."

"Aw, you're only saying that 'cause Sherlock Holmes is a major dick with ambiguously gay relations between him and his little sidekick."

"Feel free to take it that way."

"Screech made a porno."

"Like, in-universe!?" He says, outraged.

"No!" I say, rushing with laughter. "The actor did! He had a sextape years later…God, Cody, I think they only drank alcohol on the show _one time, _and you think they'd get away with _that? _"

"Hey, you never said Dustin Whatshisname, you said Screech. You need to clarify some things."

"I think saying you're Screech-smart might be more accurate than you realize."

At this point we're lying face to face in his bed, he with his folded elbow behind his head. "Does that make Gwen that black chick he's in love with?"

"There was one episode where he tried to beat up the protagonist over it."

"You can't get in fights with a protagonist, you're usually going to fail." Cody says.

"What an immensely stupid show."

"The early nineties are wrecked."

"We were made then."

"Probably because there was nothing good for our parents to watch on TV."

"Um, gross."

"You have a lot of siblings so your parents probably did it more than mine."

"I did the math, I must have been conceived on Boxing Day, 1991."

"Sinful."

"Happy Holidays."

I enjoy our banter. We still lie face to face in his unadorned bedroom. We've been talking like this, alternating between being nose to nose and face to ceiling, because occasionally your thumbs get just too sore for video games. He grins at me, and I smile back. He rolls onto his back.

He falls off his bed.

I laugh.

* * *

**So this chapter is almost as long as the entire rest of the story so far... I'm back 2 college now, so I'm not sure if that means updates will be slower or what...I dunno. Thanks for the reviews and faves! I have to say I enjoy this chapter, not very eventful but fun mood.**

**Edit: The paragraphs were kinda smooshed in a way that killed my small time-skip markers, I hate putting ugly-ass grey bars in the middle of my story but it's the only way that seems to stay there once I save. **


	5. Speculative Fiction

Cody is bashing down my door.

"Noah! Noah, can you – do you know what today is?"

I peel my eyes open. Why must it be that I am awoken multiple times a week by him hollering outside my door?

"Noah it's – Noah? Can you…can you just open the door, I don't wanna yell."

I get out of bed and nab a shirt off the floor to put on before opening the door.

"What, Cody." I say, instead of ask.

"You know what today is?"

"July 27th?"

"No! Yes. But there's something special about today."

"Your birthday?"

"No."

"_My _birthday?"

"No."

I begin to tire of his charade. I rub my eyes.

"_Gwen's _birthday?"

"That's not til December 11th."

"Nice. Okay, I bite."

"I can TAKE MY BANDAGES OFF TODAY!" he shrieks.

"So you're waking me up. At seven-oh-six. Because you want to announce you're taking your bandages off." I say, incredulous.

"I wanna swim."

"At dawn?"

"It's not dawn, it's like, seven thirty."

"Too early for swimming."

"Come on."

"You die if you swim less than 30 minutes after sleeping."

"No, that's thirty minutes after eating."

"No, the sleeping isn't what kills you, it's the me-holding-your-head-under-the-water part that kills you. Revenge for interrupting my sleep."

"I want to swim." He whines.

"Let me _sleep." _My voice takes on a tone far whinier than his. "Until nine thirty. Promise. Wake me up then, exactly then, and I'll swim with you. Okay?"

"What do I do while I wait?" he says, overly excited.

"I dunno, maybe sleep? I do not _care_." I enunciate. "Go strap electrodes to Trent's head and fap over his Gwen memories. Hover beside my bed and watch me sleep for two hours. I _do not give a damn." _I gesture with my hands. I turn around in the doorway and crawl back into my bed. My sheets are cold and inviting, as they usually tend to be on an early summer morning.

"Okay." I hear him whisper. I release a very quiet yelp, and turn to see he's sitting on my floor.

"Lay off the ecstasy, Cody." I groan before shutting my eyes. I feel a pressure on the edge of my bed. Oh, come on.

"Screw this, I'm playing Pokemon Emerald." He says. I can hear the sound of him turning on my Gameboy, which he evidently felt invited to root in my desk for.

"Mute it." I say sharply.

"Okey dokey." He whispers, propped up beside me in my bed.

"I hate you, Cody." I groan as I smash my face into my pillow, personal space limited by his presence.

* * *

When I wake up, I can feel a lukewarm point of skin pressed against the back of my neck, and the on-and-off damp heat of breath. Oh, this is just dandy. I figure that point of skin is Cody's nose. Despite the awkwardness of the position, I can tell he's sleeping, and compared to the last time we accidentally spooned in our sleep, this is very relaxed. I'm still a little tired.

I'm facing a wall, and it's impossible to contort myself in such a way to see a clock, but I figure that if it were any later than nine thirty, Cody would already be pouring buckets of water over me to wake me up. Truth be told, I don't want to go swimming, and I don't want to get out of bed, but I'm beginning to see a pattern here that I am willing to do annoying things for my annoying friend.

As such, even though his breath is moistening my hair slightly, and his hand is sort of cupping my chest as if I had an invisible boob, I don't want to wake him. It's like when a parent carries their kid in from the car after a long drive without waking them, because the parent doesn't want to deal with all the bullshit. I really don't want to deal with his bullshit. It's like when my dog wants to go for a walk and starts harassing you with its leash.

I find myself stuck in a brief loop of re-thinking thoughts about my dog. It's something that happens when you're tired. I sort of understand what Cody meant when he said it felt kind of nice to be jammed up so close to another person, especially when you're unaccustomed to contact. His body is compact enough to not force me into the crack between my bed and the wall, but at the same time, his bones sort of jab me, but I probably shouldn't be overanalyzing this, because it's getting in the way of me actually falling back asleep for a few precious moments, which is probably the only thing that will keep me from passing out and drowning later. So I let myself settle into his awkward embrace. Even though his foggy breath is leaving the hair at my nape wet.

* * *

My third awakening of the morning is not a pleasant one, though neither of the previous two were exceptional either. Cody tears the comforter off me.

"Swimming time!" He yells.

"Agh." I moan as I squeeze into a tight fetal-position ball. "Do we need to rush to the pool or can I at least confirm I'm awake first."

"Well, I'll need your help with something before I can actually get to the water anyway."

"Smoothies first please." I complain.

"Smoothies first." He says with a smile.

So we have smoothies. His smoothie is more like a diabetes shake. He plops in a scoop of strawberry ice cream, bananas, more strawberries, and a bunch of random stuff. I decide it's a good idea to mix kale with chocolate, mostly because I know it will baffle him that kale blended with chocolate actually doesn't taste horrible. But nothing with chocolate tastes horrible, which is an earth-shattering lesson Cody learned when I explained the concept of Molé to him a few days ago.

God, I love teaching him stuff. He's such a genius in some ways, but there are so many things he doesn't know that seem so obvious to me, things I've known for years. He acts so incredibly cool, but it seems the only book in his mental coolness library is about internet slang. But then, he can try to school me on things like robotics and computer science, but those are things that are best left to the experts, because their workings sound like complete gibberish to the layman.

And as much as I can't tolerate stupidity, his endears me. It seems more like naiveté than stupidity, like he's a kid who I can teach, and as I said, that really feeds my ego. And yet, even when he's speaking of his jargon-ridden computer nonsense, I have to admire the passion in his voice, something you usually only hear when he speaks of Gwen. Or of going swimming today. Ugh.

I realize that right now I'm staring at him while sucking down my thick concoction through a straw. He's struggling with the blender, trying to rinse it out. An unusual friend. He's gotten to me, and there's something ironic about that, although I can't quite highlight the exact passage that makes it ironic. I just feel it.

He looks up at me, expressionless for a moment, then gives a gap-toothed smile. He sits across from me at the table and drinks his smoothie as well.

"I'm so pumped to go swimming." He says.

"What is your _obsession _with swimming?" I mumble

"I come from the east coast! I used to have ocean all around, now I'm in the centre of the country, and the only water at the camp was infected with nuclear wastes, and I was forbidden from swimming in the pool for _weeks_, and I'm gonna lose my mind if I don't get back into the water."

"So, are you going to, like, grow your fins or something?" I venture.

"H2O buddy. Just add water."

"H2O is nothing until you add water."

"It's oxygen and hydrogen."

"That _makes _water, though, you don't need to add any water."

"I was trying to make a pop culture reference, Noah, please let me be."

I take another long swig of my drink. "So, what is it you wanted me to help you with?" I reach the bottom of my cup and suck hard to get the remnants out, scraping the side of my glass with the straw.

"Oh." He says, remembering what he'd asked me for. He pulls the straw out of the glass, licks it, and chugs the rest of his drink, foregoing the straw altogether. "Okay, we need to go back to my room just for a sec."

We slide off of our stools and leave our cups in the area for dishes. We head into the back hallway, down to number 108. He fumbles for the key in his pocket, and opens the door. As soon as the door shuts behind me, he pulls his shirt off over his head. He has his pale and bony back to me. The skin on the back of his shoulders is not exactly flawless, but my eyes are drawn to the bandages wrapped around his chest. Like a samurai or something. It's sort of badass.

He turns to me. "What I wanted was for you to help me get these bandages off. That's another thing I'm kinda excited about." He shrugs with a grin. "You told me my scar is gonna make me look cool. I hope it's true."

I approach him. "Uh, sure." My eyes trace the perimeter of his chest as I circle around him. "Where do I…start?"

He pokes his fingers around his ribs, gently to the sternum, around his back. "Um…I don't know where they start." He jams a finger under the top bandages and pulls it forward, un-tucking a piece of bandage right behind his left armpit. "Oh. Okay."

"Lemme help you out there." I grunt, lightly unravelling the peach-coloured bandage around his torso. I roll it around my wrist as it comes off of him. "God, did they wrap you up in a kilometre of this stuff?" Finally, the bandage reaches its end, but that was only the mantle of the multi-layered crust known as his bandaging. "Maybe the full-body cast they showed on TV wasn't so far off."

He laughs. "This is the part that I was actually worried about. There's gauze, like, taped to my chest, and I don't wanna tear my skin clean off."

Once again facing him, I wince as I try to get my fingernails under the tape. "This is definitely gonna sting." I whine. I try to pull it off slowly.

"Agh! Just get it over with!"

"No way, you'd regret it if I went fast."

He keeps his fists tight as I peel the rest of his tape off. Tiny bits of his skin pucker as the tape tears away, I can only imagine that it stings at his invisibly small chest hair. I have to count myself lucky it isn't happening to me. The ribbon of tape reaches its end; the gauze piled against his wound falls in a clump. There is a very light line of yellow and a dot of brown on the gauze, but it is not bloody or disgusting like I expected. Cody's eyes are still shut. "How does the scar look?"

I look at his face, and down at the line on his chest. It's slightly discoloured, a line about as long as my hand from heel to fingernail. It leaves a slight indent, with a raised edge, diagonally on his chest, from an inch above his nipple to right below the opposite collarbone.

"Yes, good news, it looks pretty badass." I whisper. I lift a hand to his chest and ghost my fingertip very lightly against the skin right below the scar, careful to not dig into his not-fully healed scar. I glance upwards for a moment, to see he's opened his eyes and he's examining the wound himself. He laughs lightly.

"I'm going to impress everyone with this."

"Unfortunately, most people aren't thrilled to be told they're going to be 'impressed' as someone takes their clothes off." I reply, eyes not vacating his chest. I feel more confident that I will not hurt him with my touch, and still focused on that mark across his chest, I trace the scar with my index and middle finger, from the clavicle down to the lower extremity. I breathe so silently, focusing on every detail of his damaged skin.

I stop my fingers, but do not lift them from his skin. My brow furrows and I look up. His eyes meet mine, and he lets out a tiny, breathy chuckle. For the most miniscule moment, things seem more silent than usual. With my hand motionless against his chest, I begin to hear the sound of my blood pulsing right behind my ears, a cloudy sound, like a pounding beneath water. I feel some kind of heat within my veins. A tight feeling in my throat. This concerns me. I'm looking straight into his eyes, they're not quite blue and not quite green, and I never really put much consideration into his eye colour until just this moment. I let a tiny stream of air through my lips before I avert my eyes. I drop my hand and turn my face to the right.

I won't play stupid about that moment. I won't pretend it didn't happen, though I'm clueless as to why it did.

He seems completely unchanged by the passed moment. I think it lasted longer within my mind than it did externally.

"Could you hand me that little roll of stuff sitting on my vanity?" he says.

I hurry over to the sink and grab the roll. "What do you need this for, now?"

"Ah, waterproofing." He says. "I wish I didn't need to take so many precautions. I wanna raw-dog it with that swimming pool, like, now."

My shoulders slump and I smile. "Okay, _Codester, _let's head out."

* * *

Sometimes, I hate the hell out of swimming. If it's hot outside, why get into a puddle of coldness? I would like to sit on the edge of the pool, sipping smoothies, reading books, something like that. Although I know one of these days I'm going to learn my lesson the hard way about reading books alongside the pool, but until that day, I tempt fate.

Except not right now, because Cody's intent on swimming with me. The moment the pool was in our view, he cannonballed right in. I'm little more timid in my gradual moistening. First a foot, then up to the calf, then to the thigh. The whole 'getting my balls wet' part is pretty hard, but it only takes a moment until that has passed as well. The hardest part is fast approaching, the part where I'm up to mid-chest. Once the hair is wet, there's no turning back.

Cody is swimming laps from edge to edge.

He groans loudly as he passes me. "Come on, dude, I know you're a lazy guy when it comes to sports, but it's just swimming, it's _relaxing." _

I'm feeling that awkward sensation of my nipples getting hard because of the drop in body temperature. I don't like that feeling, it makes me feel like a woman. Not because women get cold, but because it reminds me I have nipples, which as a man, really are unnecessary features and just yet another place for awkward hair to grow.

Cody paddles closer to me. He stands up straight with his feet on the pool-bottom, facing me.

"Get 'ducked'" he says.

"Ducked? Is that a Nova Scotia thing?"

"The rest of the world doesn't say 'ducked'?"

I roll my eyes.

"Count of three?" He says with a hopeful grin.

I loosen my grip on the pool's edge and step towards the centre of the pool. We still stand face to face. I feel the slightest tingle in my chest, which shudders up to my ear. It is very reminiscent of what happened earlier this morning, but then, my lips break into a smile. He starts to count.

On three, we both plunge under the surface. The water has to be at least twenty-five degrees Celsius, but it feels icy against the warm skin of my cheeks. I pry my eyes open under water. I can see Cody's blurred image across from me, sitting on the pool floor. He unfolds his legs and shoots to the surface, and I follow suit.

I emerge from the water with a gasp, and so does he, resulting in us sort of spraying water at each other. I push a clump of my hair out of my eyes and smear it back in a sort of glossy, criminal hairdo. I look incredibly stupid with wet hair. He doesn't, though, he looks like a kid in his inflatable backyard pool, ecstatic to be free-floating.

As I fiddle with my hair, Cody smashes me in the back of the head with a rainbow beach ball. I turn to him, eyebrow arched. For a second, he almost looks scared that he offended me, but I grab the ball and toss it back at him. This induces a sequence of us tackling each other, violently smashing each others' faces into the water's surface, and chasing after the ball. I get out of breath very easily, but I'm shocked that I'm actually having a moderate amount of fun while _exercising. _Subsequently, Bridgette and Tyler get involved, and I allow them to pull my weight as well, making some feeble attempts for the ball, mostly just to hit Cody in the head again, though I avoid his chest because that fascinating scar still seems too fragile to me.

Things get less fun when Eva shows up. I'm not sure if maybe 12:45 is still considered 'early in the morning' to her, or what, but she's grumpy as per the usual and decides to take it out on Tyler and his incompetence, so the pool pretty much becomes a bloodbath as she inflicts as much damage as one humanely can using a hollow, inflatable ball.

Under the cover of intense splashing, I crawl out of the pool and recline in a pool-chair to dry off. Cody is engaged in a sort of…hair-pulling match with Bridgette? Maybe. I snicker, and my eyes catch the scar again. There's a transparent film over it to keep the chlorine out, although it's mostly healed. I'm not sure what fascinates me about the scar. Maybe it's just because Cody can be such a _child _sometimes, yet he's got that war wound, certainly not a playground scar. And then, contrast that with the fact he likes to pretend like he's some big man on campus, but he looks thirteen, and he still sleeps with stuffed animals. I'm sure if I were talking about a character in one of my books, this would all mean something.

He hobbles out of the pool, slowly, like James Bond, who isn't sexy at all. Not that Cody's exactly sexy either, he walks with a pained gait. He sits in the seat beside me. I look at him expectantly.

"Eva kicked me in the chest." He says, wheezing. "She was all like, 'you're a pussy!'" He takes on a deeper tone of voice, to imitate her. "And I was like, bitch, I got clawed by a bear." I can tell he didn't actually say 'bitch'. "It's not my fault that you grew up in, like, Russia, and you're used to bears playing in your treehouse or shitting in your outhouse, or what, your, your, your, statues of Lenin, honestly, man I don't know what they have in Russia."

I laugh rather raucously, uncharacteristically so. His delivery of those words, their innocuous diction despite their failed attempts at poignancy and insult, the way he looks at his own hands and a wrinkle appears beneath his eye. For the third time today, I feel something funny, less so than the second, and much less so than the first, but it's there, subtly.

I am not a fool. I know full well what it means to have this stirring. I've read books, I've lived a life, I've had eight older siblings and a hundred friends. I know the feeling of falling when it comes. For a short moment this morning, I was very attracted to Cody. I know it happened. I recognized it for what it was. But this conscious recognition doesn't make it any less baffling that such a strange feeling uncovered itself so abruptly.

I peruse the form of his body, reclined in repose against the plastic seat. I don't feel attracted to him right now, at least, not in the sense that I actively desire him. There's something about the confident but fragile nature of his body that interests me, and it all comes back to that scar. Yet, I don't feel attracted to him at this exact moment.

I will say, honestly, that this morning in his room, I wanted to kiss him. It happened without any warning. I looked up at him, hand on his scar, and some strange mist settled over me; a mysterious dust spread by some erotic winged god, and it was really freaking weird. In that tiniest moment of silence, amongst all the other loud moments we'd had, everything felt very topsy-turvy, exciting yet calm.

And now I'm here, watching him as he falls asleep beneath the large parasol stretched above us, and I wonder if that moment is to re-occur.

I know for a fact that it happens sometimes, where you just sit with someone you've known for a while, and they make this expression, or something in their voice, and suddenly they're so much more beautiful than before. And for the tiniest moment, thoughts pass through you, a sudden cascade of possibilities, of floodgates, but as fast as they were opened, they close. You ignore that it ever happened.

It happened to me in seventh grade towards my art teacher. She was definitely female, but very beautiful. She was trying to show my desk-neighbour how to do something. She was folded over, and the way her dark hair cascaded as she straightened her lean body back into an erect position – for the briefest moment, I felt attracted, and like that, it was gone, and it never happened again, so maybe this is the same thing.

Yet, he's not a teacher, he's not a girl, or anything else completely inaccessible to me. He's my admittedly irritating but rather cute summer-camp friend. I stare at him again. His eyes are shut and a thin, exhausted, satisfied smile plays at his mouth, a child getting his chance to swim. Very endearing, I will be the first to admit. I know he's not sleeping, but I know his eyes will stay shut.

I prop myself on my right elbow and awkwardly maneuver myself onto my side. I plop back down into the chair with a crack, face smashed against the smooth, fake-grained plastic. As he does not watch me, I watch him. I watch the air fill his chest, and stretch the pale skin around his scar. I follow the gangly form of his body down to the jutting points of his pelvis, and his bellybutton – he's so skinny that his belly button lies like a flat swirl against his abdomen instead of a hole that goes in. I'm not sure why I'm focussing on every little detail about him now. I guess I got used to him without ever truly taking his identity into consideration. I didn't even consciously register his eye colour until this morning.

I've scanned every inch of him, as he slowly roasts dry in the shade. The sun has left his pale skin slightly pinker, the melanin of his freckles gaining definition on his nose. At this moment, I decide he's beautiful. I'm not sure how to handle the revelation.

* * *

Because he made me swim with him, I gave Cody a bit of payback in the form of sitting him in front of the TV and watching 30 Rock. He doesn't like 30 Rock, but I remind him that I don't really particularly care for swimming. Which isn't entirely true, I'm sure I like swimming a lot more than Cody likes 30 Rock, and I'm sure he likes swimming more than _I _like 30 Rock, but what kind of weird payback would it be if it were so small?

For the first segment of the show, the first ten minutes or so before the first commercial break, I would jab him every time he'd start mentally wandering. Either he'd tip-toe his fingers towards the remote, which would be met with a slap on the wrist, or he'd lean his head back like a hallucinating clairvoyant, eyes narrowing and mouth lying slack, at which point I could tell he was getting sleepy.

So repeatedly, I would poke him in the ribs with the side of my hand as he began to slip again into dreamland, but once the show was about half-over, I ultimately gave up on keeping him conscious. As he murmured something about 'letting Sarah Palin get an office job", I let him fall asleep, open-mouthed, head against the cushion of his seat.

The position he sleeps in leaves his throat stretched taut, adam's apple protruding from the light, strained skin. His maw is open like a carnivorous fly-pitcher plant, and air gets sucked in between his parted teeth, rushing noisily in and out of his throat. I make a smirk at him, though I know he can't see me.

I don't get irritated by the sound at first, but it slowly worms its way between me and Alec Baldwin, so I place a gentle finger against his nose and tilt his head downwards, bringing his jaw back together and muffling the raucous buzzing of his vibrating uvula. He tips over and falls face-down in the seat cushion between us, forehead against my thigh. It's not enough to be cute snuggly sleep, because God knows we've had enough of that, and the contact certainly doesn't make me nervous. That means that either he's a friend-friend or I've fallen so far for him, without my own knowledge, that I've already hit the long-term marriage phase, and although that seems like the easier part of a relationship, I wouldn't want to jump right in.

I look down at the patch of neck directly beneath his ear, and snicker at the somewhat unpleasant memory of that particular locale. It takes on a different meaning now, I think. It's weird to think of it that way – that at the time, I'd rather be spooning with Trent than Cody, and now, ah, I'm not so sure.

Some small part of me wants to pat down his hair with my hand, but at the same time, the urge isn't very strong and I'm not one for mushy gestures. I'm sure the naïve yet big-pimpin' kid in my lap would be a bit freaked out if I did. Although upon further thought, it would be the first time anything I've done has really rattled him.

I still look up at the television most of the time. He might not like 30Rock, but I do. Plus, I don't need to watch his unassuming face anymore. I already decided today that he's handsome. I don't need to re-assess it so soon.

I'm being very analytical about this, but somewhere inside, it sort of terrifies me. I don't usually have a 'crush' on a close friend, I always feel random sexitude for random people. Like the Trent scenario. I think about the times where I'd sit at a table with two friends, knowing full well that every glance Friend A gives Friend B has meaning, yet B never sees it. It must be quite arduous.

So as such, I figure, if Trent died so easily despite the occasional erotic dream, any particular stirrings that Cody's naked, scarred chest can arouse in me will die in their own turn, no pain, no foul. My skin burns on the one part of my leg he touches, but maybe it's just that he pinches down on my sciatic nerve. The pressure of his head on my thigh is getting more noticeable. It sort of hurts.

_It doesn't have to. _

My eyes widen, as I suddenly remember the conversation Cody and I had outside those short days ago. _It only hurts if you let it. _Not my thigh, of course, though I'm sure if I tossed Cody onto the floor, the pinching tingle in my thigh would go away. He meant the love thing, something about 'letting it go'?

Usually, I would take that to mean 'move on' or 'forget it, buddy, she's way out of your league', but I think what Cody meant by it was, you can like someone a lot without clinging to the pretention that one day they will feel exactly the same. That, honestly I'm not so well-versed in how this could happen, but somehow you can manage to rejoice in their joy despite them remaining distant and unreciprocative to your desire?

From my perspective, I feel like that's a good way to explore from unexpressed tensions. In addition, another thing on my growing list of things that aren't fortes: empathy. Whether empathy for the downtrod, or sharing joy at another's accomplishments, if it doesn't directly involve me, I'm not really the master at caring. Maybe that's something I admire about him. He seems so aloof and uncool, but there's something about him that shows he's got a side of being a very nice guy, unassuming and generous. That's really sweet, and so unlike me. I can't promise myself I would not boil over in envy and anger if I couldn't have someone I wanted, and for that, maybe Cody was a little bit on target with his assessment of me. I'm just not nice enough to 'let it go'. I would suffer if I were in love, and not in a selfless way either.

And despite everything I just finished telling myself, I feel this soft feeling in my – my heart, I guess, when I look down and see him sleep peacefully on my slightly numb leg. I'm beginning to need to pee, but I don't want to move him until it's absolutely necessary. There's this fluffy feeling, not throbbing and anxious, that his presence gives. Just from being around him. Being my friend. If that's the unbraided edges of the falling in love phenomena, I'd be willing to allow it. If I tell myself now that it won't hurt, even if he never wants me back, then I can accept it consensually before I've ever _forced _to accept it. And seeing as he's in love with a girl _and _he has major single-target-vision problems, it seems pretty definite that it would go that route.

The need to urinate overcomes my desire for deep thoughts. I bend my torso over in my seat, and gently nuzzle the side of his cheek with my nose, too timid to let my lips get near again. I know it's creepy, but it's almost an experiment. I gently lift his head off my leg and, once I'm standing, replace it on the cushion. He does not stir.

I walk away. I will allow my mind to go where it wants with this, I'll allow memories of the awake-a-thon morning to be my new dreams. If I accept that it's all I'll ever get, it will never need to hurt me.

* * *

July 31, 2009

Day 4 of 'letting myself fall for Cody'.

Situation normal.

Nothing to report.

Okay, I believe that my above statement does pretty much cover the current situation. I'm not sure if maybe I'm doing it wrong or something, but every teenager ever has totally overestimated the amount of suffering that goes into having a crush on someone. To their credit, they probably live in a Taylor Swift song, and they probably like the most popular kid in school or something. Me, I only need to deal with someone who, though he doesn't want _me, _won't find anyone who's _not _me any time soon, and when he does somewhere down the line, I'll be too busy living in a _different province to care. _

Okay, fine, I guess I should probably rant a little more about stuff that happened, but really, there wasn't much. We watched about 20 episodes of '1000 Ways to Die' and he made fun of me for not being able to take pleasure in all the hot Asian girls on the show, to which I retorted that anyone who watched _our _show should be slightly turned off of hot Asian girls. We had some weird tiki barbecue night that I sort of didn't care to go to, but I mean, it's my house too, so I went. There was pulled pork, and Cody hugged me because I was the only person who agreed with him during some asinine argument. I'll be fair and say that did excite me a bit. But it also made me sort of cranky because it was 'cute' and I'm not accustomed to calling things cute unless I'm referring to doggies, kitties, or sarcastically alluding to something that is decidedly un-cute.

Truth is, we're stuck in this damn loser house like it's a compound. We can't go out in the city, because we don't want people knowing the results of our contest until the episodes are all aired, and seeing as only one airs a week, and about three or maybe even four are _filmed _in a week, I'd say we'd be stuck here til, ah, Christmas.

So maybe all this beginning to like Cody bullshit comes from my enforced Stockholm syndrome of being trapped in this luxury lobster trap for over a month, no one of value beyond him to keep me company!

I know that's not true, and I'm glad it isn't. I'm not sure if I ever would have bothered to notice him once in my old life, but sometimes a foreign situation can bring with it new perspective, good things, yadda yadda, inspirational blathering, but it's true.

Both of us have a synthetic quality to our personas that we forego when we're together. To be fair, my synthetic persona is like, say, any of the robotic replicant characters from Blade Runner, whereas his is more like C3PO, in terms of blatant phoniness. I'm realizing now, with a bit of terror, that I respect him, and I'm sort of scared of respecting people. At least, it's not what I'm used to. Maybe that's why I'm less 'phony' around him. I don't need to pretend to like him.

In fact, as I sit with him on the sofa once again, and he scolds me for never having tons of Pokémon cards as a kid like he did, I realize how genuinely I really like him. In fact, in another life, I could be in love with someone like him.

* * *

Day six.

He and I took a leisurely lunch today. We sat around poking at the oddly shaped potato wedges on our plates. He said they tastes like a leather wallet. I asked him how he knew. He said, 'like a cow, except made of paper.' And I laughed.

He said if he pulled on the corners of his eyes, I sort of looked like a girl. I said I was too hairy to be a girl. He made a very pathetic attempt at a gay joke before tugging at the corners of his eyes with his fingertips again. I pleaded with him, 'stop that!'. So I grabbed his hands and held them against the table for a dozen-odd minutes. Maybe not so much. But we were holding hands, and that was pretty cute, and he's pretty cute, and he's pretty dumb, and I really like him. It's funny.

I did my best to ignore the chortling from Izzy that I could hear from across the room. Yeah, she's here now. I don't really like her, but she won't leave me alone. And by that I mean she sort of follows me and dumps a few non-sequiturs my way, and I never know what to say. Maybe this is a stroke of luck, but she tends to leave me alone when I'm trying to hang out with Cody. Except sometimes she's dangling over the banister or hiding behind furniture, and I'm not entirely sure why.

But it's like playing 'Where's Waldo' because I don't notice her right away. Actually, I'll go out of my way to ignore her because, as I said, she doesn't interrupt my Cody time and I would appreciate it greatly if it continued that way.

So in any case, my fingers stroked with imperceptibly light touch against the backs of Cody's hands, as I waited for him to pull them away from me. He stalled longer than I'd expected, but I didn't want to be the one to break away. When he ultimately did, I stifled a smile. Maybe he's naïve, or maybe he knows.

So there you have it. This is my story of how I began to like Cody, and it hardly even involved my pulse racing. At least, up until now.

"Ugh, get my shirt wet, why don't you?"

I'm kind of embarrassed. Because this is my first time on TV again since I was eliminated from the competition, and just like how the competition liked to show off many of my _least _glorious moments such as kissing Cody and being very shitty at sports, the camera decides to pay attention to me once again when I just so happen to be sitting with Katie and Sadie. Ugh, what if the general public believes we're _friends? _I know I sound like a bitch because of how much I hate everyone, but the truth is the only people I cannot stand are Justin, Gwen, and _Katie and Sadie. _Their voices, their clothes, Sadie's…muffin top! Izzy has her moments. Lindsay is just irreparably dumb so I actually have sympathy for her. But Sadie, honey, there is no excuse for those shorts. Just because you wanna dress like your girl-friend doesn't mean you need to buy the exact same clothes in the _exact same size. _

But I digress. I'm with these lovely ladies at the juice bar. Sadie got bit by a 'shark', which, as I gently reminded Katie, _do not swim in chlorinated water. _Much to my not-surprised-at-all, Izzy's latex-covered melon-head bobs up from under the water.

"That was me! Sorry, I just got the sudden urge to _bite _something! Do you ever get that urge!? Just to…to dig your teeth into something! Grar!"

I spend all of four seconds wondering if maybe she was spying on me. If she somehow wanted to be friends with me or something, why doesn't she just ask? I mean, I wouldn't really like that, either, but I've made compromises before. I think the difference between making friends with someone like her as opposed to, say, Heather is: if you made friends with Heather and you maintained a decree of absolute transparency with her, you'd have a powerful ally. With Izzy, you're in just as much trouble of waking with a horse in your bed whether she's a friend _or _an enemy.

I pull off my soaked shirt and notice the camera is still on me. I roll my eyes a little, in hopes they won't decide to slow down the footage of me peeling off my clothes and play 'Careless Whisper' over it, adding it to my compilation of 'Greatest Noah Moments'. The dicks. They probably would too.

Standing next to the cameraman, Chris gives me a prompt about my elimination, asking me to comment.

"Apparently I'm not bossy, manipulative, or 'dangerous' enough. You can't say I wasn't a team player, though." I say, voice dripping in sarcasm. I know that's sort of untrue, but I figure the editing squad will butcher whatever I do, and if I say anything more complicated they'll reconstruct it into some parable about me banging Chris and sacrificing DJ's bunny to Lóki.

Then again, this is immediately followed up by squealing from Katie and Sadie. So anything I say will probably look genius. The camera people also ask everyone in the immediate vicinity to comment on their general experience in this competition. The ironic thing is, I've almost forgotten about the competition entirely. It's been almost a month since I was part of it. This seems more like a mediocre stay at a summer bungalow than a reality show. I really didn't get anything out of it. So I suppose when it comes my turn to speak, that's about all I can say.

Oh, remember how I said the whole 'liking Cody a tiny bit' thing hasn't gotten my pulse racing yet?

Well that spell is officially broken.

As soon as I mention the inanity of my stay here, the lackadaisical adventure that this competition had been, Izzy explodes from beneath the surface of the water. I don't have time to wonder how she heard me, but with a sly grin she yells:

"He kissed a guy!"

My heart starts pounding, out of surprise of the sudden noise, but mostly from embarrassment.

"I did not!" is my automatic reaction.

"Did!" She replies, mockingly.

I get into a fatuous back-and-forth with her over whether or not I kissed Cody. I did, of course, but it wasn't really a 'kiss', and I was sleeping, and I was actually thinking of Trent! And in addition, I _will not let her win a did/didn't fight! _

As if he knew I was thinking of him, Trent pipes up. My pounding heart clenches in another snapping beat.

"Um, I can break this tie. He totally did."

Oh my God, oh my God, how does Trent know? Did Cody say it, or, or did Trent know I was dreaming about him? This is incredibly embarrassing. I feel so pilloried. Why must this happen on television. I open my mouth to talk but a small airy squeak comes out.

"I have…no comment."

Thank Jesus, Lindsay comes over screaming in ecstasy to draw attention away from me. My heart calms down, but the side of me that faces Trent burns a little, and my eyes shift around in search of Cody, hoping desperately that the topic doesn't get brought up with him. On second thought, he was completely innocent in all this, so his view might compliment my own.

Ugh, whatever.

Every time Trent mentions Gwen, I want to stab myself, and every time I try to say something witty, someone throws something at me. I get knocked into the pool and decide to stay there, just to ignore everything else for the rest of the afternoon.

After a few hours of this, we break for dinner. Around nine o'clock, once the sky begins to darken, we all gather around the pool for some final comments and for this weird unexpected twist thingy that I don't quite understand yet.

A very sunburned Cody takes a seat beside Trent. Trent has his guitar as usual. Despite my faint residual lust for him, he makes me so angry when he has that guitar or when he talks about Gwen. I'm not sure what goes through my mind, but it's the strangest mix of attraction and disdain. Maybe I'm just cranky that I can't have him. But then again, I don't want him. Maybe I'm cranky that such a shitty personality is in such a hot body.

"You really want Gwen to win? But she rejected you on international TV for someone cooler, hunkier and more stylish!" Lindsay says to Cody.

Maybe I'm just mad he loves someone so shallow and deliberate.

"Thanks for reminding me, Lindsay." Cody replies

He's gotten better at using sarcasm, I guess it's from hanging out with me, but he still hasn't gotten a handle on using the sarcastic 'tone' as opposed to simply saying the opposite of what he feels.

"Gwen is my dream girl. But I'm not her dream guy. If she's happy, I'm happy." His eye twitches slightly at this, and I notice.

"That's really cool, dude." Trent says, slapping Cody on his sunburnt arm. Maybe what I hate about Trent is that he hurt Cody, unintentionally, and not just by slapping him right now, but because of everything. Or maybe I just don't like Trent at all. I don't need to think about it anymore. It makes me feel guilty that I ever felt any draw towards him now. Cody can grin his little gap-toothed smile all he wants but I know there's something hurting there.

And now I just feel stupid for thinking about all of this too hard.

It turns out that we have the chance to vote off a camper – that's the big twist. The spiteful side of me wants to vote off Gwen, but just moments ago I heard Cody hope for her victory, so that would be unkind of me, as a close friend of his, to go against his wishes just because I don't particularly like her. I won't vote for Heather. She did horrible things to win, and it earned her a lot of hate, and I think if you're willing to sacrifice your pride to win, you deserve the crown. Duncan creeps me out, but the longer he stays on the island, the less likely I am to wake up with an unwanted labret piercing. I think maybe Owen deserves to win, too, because he's just an innocent, stupid tub of lard that never hurt anybody. Actually, he's the only one who was never truly mean to any other person.

All this time I spend thinking through my options ends up being completely wasted. Chris has the whole thing rigged for us to vote off Lashauna. Leshonda? Leshawna. I never remember what her name is. My family is from an ethnic group where there are plenty of 7-syllable last names, yet I'm still more confused by the average urban African-Canadian. Well, everyone in my family has names out of the freakin' Bible, much easier to remember.

She arrives by boat less than an hour later. None of us have the guts to greet her, because we all know it's our fault she's here.

* * *

On my way to my bedroom that night, I pass Cody's room. The door is open, and I invite myself in, not before knocking lightly to ensure that if he's doing something weird like giving lotion service to the one part of his body that _isn't _sunburned, that I don't walk in on it. He might be kind of cute, but that really isn't something I need to see.

I slip in. He's lying starfish on his bed, arms extended. He groans lightly. I lean against the door-post, arms crossed smugly.

"It attracts the ladies, eh?" I say finally. He glances up at me and moans.

"Noah." He says weakly.

"Well, I'm sure attracted!" I say with a shrug. I approach his bed and sit down on the edge. He rolls slightly towards me, with a groan.

"You're lucky you're brown." He mumbles.

"We can burn too. It's not my skin so much as the fact I spent roughly 3 of the 4 hours of filming under the parasol. "

"Don't burns fade into tans?"

"Cody, you're half Scottish, half Swedish. You're screwed."

He lets out a cry of 'Wah!' before rolling onto his side. I can almost hear the sound of his skin sticking to the sheets and peeling off, like velcro. I let out a sigh. "I'll go retrieve you some lotion…"

I make the annoyingly long trek all the way to the currently-unused infirmary (we got Harold out of the pool before the street post ballast drowned him). I hurry back with a squeeze bottle of after-burn.

He still lies on his bed in a similarly pathetic position. I feel sympathetic for his misery, which is unusual for me. I plop down beside him again.

"Here you go." I toss him the bottle. He squirms into an upright position. He squeezes a blob of transparent jelly into his palm and works it into his forearms.

"You know…" I start. "The sunburn probably damaged your scar, it's going to show up stronger now."

"I'm totally okay with that." He says. "I like my scar. It's impressive."

I have to admit I enjoy his scar too. I snicker. "What kind of 'ladies' did you think you were impressing with your tan? Not sure if you looked at Gwen lately, but I'm pretty sure it's the paler; the better with her."

He chuckles meekly at my comment. "You're right. I just didn't want to look stupid so I ran with it."

"Same." This is met with incomprehension. "Oh, I mean, Izzy said I kissed you, I said I didn't, then I guess I sort of ran with that."

"You so did."

"I know, I know, but we don't want the fandom getting any ideas, huh?"

"Fandom?"

"Oh yes, there are probably people who make fanart of you. There are probably people that have internet shrines for you. Me, not so much, no one likes Indians, and everyone probably forgot me."

"How could anyone forget you?" This time, his tone was on par with sarcasm, but the statement was not a sarcastic one. He begins to rub the goo into his scrawny stomach.

"You're noble." I say suddenly. He looks alert. "About the Gwen thing. You're not obsessive and wanting, you just accept things as they are. It's a skill many should learn."

"It's passiveness." He says, with a touch of sadness. "You either have it or you don't."

"It's not passive to accept something you truly can't change, it's only passive to be assaulted by arrows and to not take arms against them."

He makes a face. He doesn't understand Shakespeare allusions. It morphs into a slight smile. "I'm not sure if it's reassuring or kind of depressing that I know it never could have been any different." He turns away from me slightly and hands me the bottle. "Could you..?" he whispers, trying to reach his back.

"She's too negative for you anyway." I prod. I use one hand to smear the lotion into his shoulder. I try to make the activity as un-erotic as possible, because it's kind of awkward. I don't understand how he repeatedly lets me do things like this, doesn't it make him feel a little…gay? I resume: "What do you even see in her? Beyond, I dunno, a blue lipstick fetish?"

"I don't know man, she's smart. And witty…." He pauses. "Sarcasm is sexy."

My heart gets tight for a little bit. I would hate myself if I had to admit I have something in common with Gwen Blaszczyk, but there it is, plain as day, we have some commonalities. But worse even than admitting I'm anything like Gwen, I feel as though I'd be a second prize to him, in her absence. Yet even that would be rewarding, and more than I could ever expect to attain. It's so outlandish, I realize. I'm sitting here, rubbing lotion into Cody's lobster-red back, and I want him more now than I ever have. Very outlandish indeed.

The dark, throbbing buzz returns to my ears as I lose myself in thought. Everything seems quiet. My own voice has drained into silence.

He turns to me slowly and utters my name. I see his face once again, and like before, another small level of newness appears in it. Another microscopic detail I'd never noticed. I stay silent for a moment, breath caught deep within, gazing into his eyes with this aura of unfamiliarity.

"Noah." He says again.

I realize I've stopped touching his back. My hand is floating limply beside him, no longer connected to his skin.

"I can take it from here, bro." He says. "You seem tired. It must be because you actually moved more than 10 metres today." He says, a bit drained, but still happy. As if he weren't just contemplating his 'true love' or some silliness abandoning him for that guitar-playing raven-haired Adonis.

"Weren't you sad just a second ago?" I say, genuinely confused.

"Not really," He says, looking up from his lotion-streaked hand. "I love her. That's all I need to know."

"Then you should hope she wins." I say.

"To find someone like her, someday…" He says wistfully. "That would be a victory of my own."

* * *

**That took me awhile! Technically, I've been nibbling at this chapter all year. I really love writing NoCo dialogue, it just flows so easily for me, maybe because I have my own nerdy friendships that I observe occuring in life to base them upon. Now there's romantic feelings developping, and it only took 25000 words! Happy shippers? lol**

**Thanks for reviews! I feel the NoCo fandom is dead now compared to back in the original run of the series (Anytime before the start of 2009) because, well, the most recent TDI franchise doesn't even have any of these characters in it. Doesn't explain how D/C is still popular even though they broke up at least three years ago...**

**Anyway, spread the NoCo love! Brown popular nerds + white awkward nerds = a beautiful thing. **


	6. Serial Novels

How do you know at what point you're in love with someone?

Okay, I figure I'm not technically 'in love', for those words seem to carry a certain weight that I am wary of bearing for now. But at what point, I wonder, does it become at least partially accurate?

A lot of people think you can't be in love with someone if you're not _with _someone, because it means you don't 'know' them, or something of sorts. But I think that's untrue. Because everyone does stupid things for others out of love, even if the love is unrequited and unfounded. The hunchback died for Esmeralda, Eponine died for Marius, and Cody would die for Gwen if she was surrounded by sharks. Not that I could ever condone such an impulsive and rash decision, not that I could condone his death, or that I could even condone the concept of him being in love with her, but in a world where all these situations co-exist, possibly a world invented by Victor Hugo, I do not doubt it would happen.

Therefore, I attest that people can easily fall in love without ever needing to be allowed in the sphere of their beloved. If not, why does love at first sight happen? I'm not a romantic, I believe love is a sort of weakness, but I do not doubt people fall under that spell of weakness from the most minute of prompts. A thorough knowledge of someone is only necessary for the establishment and maintenance of a mutual partnership, but not for the feeling of uncompromising love itself. In fact, to require such knowledge would negate the idea of it being 'uncompromised'.

And now, I've gone around my orbit, back to my original self-posed question. How do you know when you're in love, or at least on the path to it? How do you know when it's different than some silly feeling I had for somebody like Trent, or like Stéphane in grade 9, or like anyone else I had a passing interest in.

At what point do I confirm to myself that I am completely bound by my limerence to him?

Because it's 2 AM, August 3rd. The camera crews left, I treated Cody's sunburn, and I went to bed. That was at least two hours ago, yet all I can really do is lie here and think. We were informed of our guests yesterday, so I woke up earlier than usual, the day was eventful, I should be exhausted, but I'm lying here, mind activated, unable to shut my eyes for long.

Like, how fucking cliché am I right now?

I don't feel particularly depressed, so all that stuff about living in a Taylor Swift song hasn't plagued me yet. No, not even 'Love Story', calm down.

I'm going to stop for a moment and realize in horror that I know enough about Taylor Swift to know that 'Love Story' is one of her 'happy' love songs and 'You Belong with Me' is a 'sad' love song. I really want to cut myself off of this train of thought before I start likening my life to her songs. God, I am so gay. Don't I sound really gay right now?

On the bright side, my little digression made it so I could stop thinking of Cody for a solid three minutes. On the down side, I think I was really beginning to sound beautifully poetic, using such terms as 'limerence' and 'impulsive', and that streak was broken.

I want to smother myself with the pillow until I pass out, so I can sleep, but as I said, he refuses to leave my head. The thought is too consuming, but not entirely unpleasant. Perhaps I could liken it more to a waitress coming with the desert menu after you've eaten too much: nice thought, but really not the time. I'm not even sure what I'm thinking of. Just him. His voice saying no particular words; memories of his face, patched together and not directly correlated with any particular moment in time. This is strange.

I toss and turn so frequently that my fitted sheet is torn off my bed, revealing the clumpy mattress underneath. The texture is wooly and disgusting against my skin. My entire form is in a state of absolute discomfort, as the friction from my pillow has tangled and mussed my dark hair. I feel a sting just above my lower eyelids, my eyes begging to close, but when they close, the tiny strands of light that stare through my window and the narrow beam of yellow peaking beneath the door to the hallway instantly become rave-lights through my skin, jolting my optical nerve with imaginary stimulus.

I could rub one out. That would make me sleep. But if I 'accidentally' thought of Cody, I'd be so freaked out I'd stay up three times as long.

I decide to do a classic switcheroo. Sometimes, when you lay in your bed for hours without sleeping, the bed is no longer associated with sleep and comfort. You get used to it, but not comforted by it. Every pillow and lump in your comforter becomes an obstacle to your coziness. I stand up, grunt, and grab my pillow. I weakly punch it and toss it at the foot of my bed.

I slam my weakened frame back onto the mattress, face down, head pointed where my feet once were. From this angle, I can no longer see the minute crevice of light that leaks under the hallway door. I can still see the moon, wide and pale in my eyes. The moon is full tonight.

The moon is scary. So big, and barren. Mythology called it our mother. Why is our mother so much smaller than us? And does that mean the other planets have many mommies? Or that poor Venus has none? The moon is scary.

So big.

So barren.

* * *

It isn't cold when he's beside me.

The grass takes on a silvery appearance. Like always, my vision is clouded at the edges, like I'd eaten a load of wasabi and I can feel the fire in my sinuses up into my brain. I'm angry because I'm still tired, but this changes quickly.

Cody asks me if I've seen his laundry. I laugh. I say I didn't.

He pouts.

Everything is illuminated like daytime, but the sky is still navy-blue. I want to fall asleep once more, on this silvery, soft grass – almost akin to a tacky aluminum Christmas tree, yet so much softer. Cody lays his head on my chest. I feel calm, but I feel angry. I want to be sleeping.

I feel his face in the crook of my neck. My hair feels wet. I can't register anything anymore. Why aren't I sleeping? I stayed up so late last night. I should be asleep, not eating dried coconut. Why am I here?

* * *

I wake up at 10:39 with the brief feeling of terror, terror that I'd been so close to a restful sleep but I was awakened only seconds in. The absence of the moon at my window, replaced by blue skies of morning, quickly allay these fears. I had another freaky dream last night, but I can't remember it. I think Cody was there, but I'm not sure what we were doing. I almost want my Trent dreams back. At least those didn't have symbolism.

I stretch out my limbs with an animal groan. I feel disoriented for a moment by my position in the bed, but I quickly sort it out mentally. I stand, extending my body to its full (meager) five and a half feet. I take the moment to inventory whether or not I'm still exhausted, and after some brief preparations, I head downstairs.

Time is running out at the loser house. There are only three people remaining on the island. The idea brings a twinge of joy to my heart, the idea of going home so comforting to me, but still I feel an echo of sadness to leave this place, no matter my ever-negative attitude.

I greet Cody with a nod when I reach the bottom of the stairs. It's as if he knows when I'll be down to see him. He does hang out with other people, like Geoff and Bridgette who are accepting to people of all sorts, and strangely enough, he even spends time with Lindsay. But I think he likes me best.

Did I really just word it that way? He likes me best. I'm pretty sure that's an established fact. I never really thought of people liking me 'best', only enjoying me from an observatory standpoint. In any case, that makes me happy that we get along, it makes me happy to spend another lazy day with him.

* * *

Okay, campers, rise and shine! Don't forget your booties cause it's cold out there today, it's cold out there every day! What is this, Miami Beach? Not hardly!

The nine days following the visit from the camera crews grow quickly to a beehive of vigorous activity, as if everyone in the house is preparing for the second coming of Jesus Christ. I believe this can be easily justified due to the revered aura that is soon to be attained by whomever emerges from this contest a victor.

Today is the day we make our timely return to the island to bear witness to the crowning of a victor to this horrible reality show. I long, in the pits of my heart, to go on a tirade about how much I don't care and how this entire endeavor was a pointless one, yet I can't shake the subtle vibration of excitement I sense within me. Maybe I turned into a softy over the summer, or perhaps the idea that someone I know is about to win a large lump sum really is a noteworthy piece of news. Especially given the fact that as Canadians he or she will not find their winnings brutally taxed into oblivion.

The entire gang chatters excitedly as we walk towards the edge of the dock, lining up to file into a small boat to cart us over to the island. Some of the more ridiculous amongst us (Courtney) have a day-bag with them containing a cornucopia of mostly unneeded goodies, but I prepare to make my crossing empty-handed.

I crunch myself between Trent and Leshawna on a bench in the boat. I can't help but feel a bit uncomfortable at the sensation of my right thigh pressing against Trent, but the luscious rump of Leshawna leaves me little wiggle room.

The boat rides low once all members of our household are inside. Lucky Owen's not here. I feel a glimmer of nostalgia at the sight of so many kids jammed into small spaces, it reminds me of every vacation I've ever had in my life. The motor sputters a bit and we chop through the water to the island, visible as a sliver on the water's horizon.

During our ride, I avoid eye contact with Heather. To be fair, most people do. I think it's because she is clearly glowering and unhappy. But I actually feel mercy for her, I empathize with her, for real. On a personal level, she's an A-grade bitch, but I believe that if someone is that willing to completely destroy their reputation just to win, she kind of deserves said win. Plus, her hair. As someone with long hair, well, boy-long, I'd probably wreck someone if it was brutally shorn from my head. I imagine she had a good five or six years' worth on her head. Chef might need to thank God that she was in shock the moment it happened or the 270 pound, 6'5" imposing black man would have been brutally murdered by the bare hands of a sixteen year old Asian teen.

The last reason I feel bad for Heather is because I heard her cry last night. Everyone kept their distance from her. However, the room she got was the one across from mine – at the very back of the hallway – because she was so late getting here most of the others were picked over. I could hear sobbing through the door, only faintly, and it sent a shot through my heart. I'm not sure why. Maybe I understand Heather better than I thought. I know I've played the popularity game, but never so vehemently as her, only passively. I can only imagine she has some tortured soul inside her, or maybe I'm just romanticizing it. Maybe, if this were a novel, her hair would count as symbolism. Possibly her hair cut means her queen bee persona has been killed?

I dismiss the idea, because I consider it unlikely that long hair would be considered a negative trait especially on a Japanese chick. I decide instead her hair was like a shield to her, or it represented her confidence. At the moment, she has some ugly coonskin cap-like thing sitting in her lap. I think she's going to use it to hide her head once she's on TV. What a sin.

I realize throughout this I've been looking at her, which is exactly what I didn't want to do, but behind the fuzzy outline of her shaven head, I can see the island come into detailed focus.

One by one, we leave the boat and clamber onto the dock. To my surprise, it doesn't collapse this time. We stand around idly waiting for further instruction. I glance around to see Chris McLean sauntering towards us.

Upon reaching the group, he explains:

"We have a peanut gallery set up for you guys to observe the finale. It's segregated by who you're rooting for, so make sure you decide before we reach the field! And if you change your mind after we start rolling, too bad."

"Fuck that, we better not get shit on if we choose the wrong person, like I wanna partake in the glory." Duncan says with a scowl. Chris rolls his eyes.

"Come on Duncan, could you tone back the language? Censor beeping actually costs money on the editing floor, you know."

"How much did blurring Heather's tits cost?" Duncan jabs.

Heather takes on a disdainful look, lip jutting, but she doesn't speak. Maybe her hair really did symbolize her confidence.

On the short walk towards the competition field, I decide to think closely about who's side I'm on. I actually never thought of it too deeply in the past. Owen gets on my nerves majorly, but he was very kind and accommodating to me, if not a bit creepy. He isn't exactly some kind of brilliant conversationalist but there's a time for everything, and when it's time for excitement, he brings it. I realize now I've grown somewhat fond of the boisterous boy – I'd never call him my best friend, but his company is at least worth some giggles.

My thoughts turn to Gwen. I never really liked Gwen. I have a very negative and sarcastic attitude, understand this, but she somehow reaches a level beyond me. That's like someone being more obese than Owen or more anal than Courtney. It goes from being a character trait, a stereotype, and becomes some monstrosity of an exaggerated personality, a trait that washes over every other aspect of the self. I will admit, as well, I remain eternally jealous of the feelings she aroused in Cody, regardless of whether I believe she is worthy of his praise. I know, however, my dislike of Gwen extends further back than my liking of Cody, so I don't attribute my irritation to the jealousy.

As if Cody knew I was thinking of Gwen, he catches up to me in the moving crowd. I turn my gaze to him and make a tight-lipped grin.

"Your ass already has an imprint on Gwen's side of the bleachers, I take it?"

He cackles lightly. "Of course, I want to show her my moral support! I think she likes me."

My face is so unimpressed and lax I feel like it's partially melting. "Are you seriously going to go back there, I thought you were done with her."

He waves his hands in front of me defensively. "No, no, I mean she _likes _me. Like you like me! She enjoys me now that I'm slowly learning to not be a creep!"

I tilt my head and give a single-breath scoff. "I think we'll have to be parted today, then." His mouth scrunches up. "You know I never liked Gwen that much, Owen was actually an acceptable buddy throughout this ordeal."

He nods. At this moment, I cement that I'm on Owen's side for victory. He always competed earnestly from day one. That's almost as formidable as Heather's tactics. Gwen sat there moping and somehow stumbled her way through. I know she did have her moments as a fierce competitor, but she doesn't have the attitude of a winner. She'll probably mess up during the finale due to simplistic overconfidence, so used to riding knowing nothing matters, that she won't take note of something that does.

I look to Cody to send him an offhanded encouragement: "May the best man win…" I say it with a lackluster tone, but I do mean it.

We make our way up the hill to the area where Gwen and Owen wait. There's a subdued feeling of excitement in the crowd, though my potential excitement decided to leave me a while ago. I note that the usually forlorn Heather is grinning again, which makes me believe she has a plot in line. It almost warms the cockles of my heart to see her back to scheming. It's the Heather we know and mostly hate.

I sit a few rows behind her on Owen's side of the bleachers, beside Courtney and Beth. I'm confused why they're on this side – I thought they liked Gwen. Then again, what do I know about how girls feel about each other? It changes frequently. I don't like either of these girls enough to converse with them regularly so I guess their alignment will stay mysterious to me.

"So campers." Chris begins, "This is your chance to tell the peanut gallery of failure what you would do if you won 100 000$"

Gwen riddles off some nonsense: "If I made it this far, maybe the rest of high school won't be so bad!" It's met with some giggles from the crowd and I roll my eyes so hard they practically fall out of my skull. "I promised to give some money to Owen, but that still leaves me with a lot. I guess I'd do some travelling, then put some down on university to study art history!"

I momentarily look upon her in favour for her generous treatment of Owen, but as I glance over to her side of the peanut gallery, I see that Trent and Cody are totally lapping up her college dreams like they're something so special. Why do the two hottest guys on this island both like the blue-haired girl? I'll never understand that.

I direct my view back to Gwen. In my head, I project to her: "Enjoy the money while you have it, you'll have lots of fun years of job-searching, unemployment, and time as a barista to look forward to once you hit that admirable art history degree…"

Maybe I should stop pissing on people's dreams. Or at least I should wait to hear Owen's plans.

"I would throw the sickest, biggest party ever, and invite ALL OF YOU!" He screams emphatically while flinging his arms in the air. We all cheer. I know I made the right choice. I just hope he would use the money to make several small installment parties and not blow it all on a The Hangover-style explosion of wasteful bullshit.

Half of Gwen's gallery trots over to our side. Expectedly, Cody and Trent stay where they are.

The rules of the game treacherous game are explained. Although deadly, it's decidedly simplistic compared to some of the things we've needed to do in the past. Gwen and Owen ready themselves to run. I can't help but sympathize with them, because neither a 293-pound guy nor a girl in heavy wedge boots are in a position to be racing, but at least they _both _have handicaps, as well as animals hats.

Chris yells 'Go'.

And they go.

Some of the more adventurous amongst us decide to chase after the competitors to push them onwards, but, true to my nature, I maintain my comfortable position on the bench. Besides, I can get a better view of Trent being shirtless from here, even though I have no idea where said shirt _went. _

The pair of finalists reach a pole and shimmy up, Owen maintaining the under-ass support of three friends beneath him. They capture coloured flags at the top of the post at about the same moment, but Owen is a bit slower to slide down. The grip of his massive paws clenches down on the pole, allowing an ear-scathing screech to resonate throughout the woods as he slides his large body down.

Gwen reaches the rickety bridge over a shark-filled chasm first. Trent, who had been up until now following her closely, decides to turn and take the 'easy way'. I'm not sure why Gwen is acting so coldly to him. It actually makes me like her less, if that's possible. He's made every effort to appear repentant for whatever acts caused her to be angry with him, but she rebukes him every time he tries to get mushy. It makes me angry for roughly a hundred reasons, most of which involve some combination of Cody, Trent, and the handsomeness they share. Why can't she appreciate that she has two men flinging themselves at her?

On the bright side, she's about to step on the bridge. I might get to witness her die in a few seconds. On the sad side, Cody would probably dive in after her to play the hero, so there's that, too.

She wobbles, putting one foot in front of the other. Owen is only inches behind her. The race is close, and I surprisingly feel a bit of anticipation for the result. I begin to resent Gwen more and more as I watch her compete, and only now that the race is half over do I truly grasp how much I really want Owen to emerge victorious.

A sharp screech is heard from the sky, and a pair of bald eagles swoop down towards the two teens climbing across the planks. Is this show even for real? Where did the eagles come from, and how are they legally allowed to keep the eggs of a protected species in their hand? I have no doubts that most of what happens here is made up of strictly controlled publicity stunts, but that hardly reduces the surreal nature of watching it occur in person.

The pair duck every time a bird flies by them. They could literally be killed. There must be some kind of safeguard in place – a safety net, something? I don't have any desire to move closer to the gorge just to investigate, so I make a feeble attempt at directing my attention back to the finalists. This is not an easy feat. It seems that every other person here has some kind of minute sub-plot going on, which is not unexpected for this show, but nevertheless distracting.

On the topic of distracting, Heather makes another scheme of removing Justin's shirt in plain view of Gwen and Owen. Their eyes widen, their gazes soften, and they seem to ignore they stand before an abyss. I stare at Justin, disinterested, and look back at the eagles, who now hover in confusion, likely also taken aback by Justin's sculpted beauty. I snort at the massive irony that as the solitary gay guy at this camp – at least to my knowledge - I don't see much appeal in Justin. Maybe I prefer pale guys.

I'm getting the strongest taste of heterosexuality I've ever felt as I find myself wanting Justin to put his clothes back on so the game can continue, however senseless the game may be. Seriously, after all the creative challenges that have been imposed on the competitors this summer, the most mundane and unoriginal footrace was chosen as the endgame? I am very unimpressed. I want this to be over with so we can have Owen's party. That is, if he wins. _When _he wins.

At this point, the two racers have run too far from my field of vision. Only those who decided to run alongside them can see where they are. I recline in my seat. I thought this would be a bit more exciting. Maybe they ran out of budget, just like Evangelion? They should have instead subjected these guys to psychological torture and awarded the money to whoever survived. They should have locked them both in a room so quiet they can hear their own hydrochloric acid sloshing inside their stomach, so quiet they can hear their pulse throb. On second though, Owen would have lost because his guts make more noise than Gwen's. Then again, maybe he's used to the gut noises and they would keep him company…?

I rise with a jolt at the sound of Lindsay screaming. "Oh no! Gwen's in the lead, our yacht party is in jeopardy!"

"I have a plan!" Izzy shrieks. Many of us exchange worried looks. "Does anyone have a giant electric fan?"

I'm not surprised Chris does. He has _everything _in his cushy trailer. Izzy cartwheels into action, a psychotic grin on her face. I'm not sure if I want to add her on the people I hate list. Maybe she'll land with Heather in the 'hate but respect' list. I think that depends entirely on how well-conceived this plan of hers it.

Gwen approaches the finish line, along with Trent carrying a boulder, and no, I don't understand that either, it's absolutely more stupid than his recent clothing removal. I think Trent might be just as insane as Izzy, at least she does it 'for the lols' - he's probably going to develop a severe mental illness any day now. That's a pity.

Owen is not too far behind, but clearly very winded. I'm truly surprised someone so massively obese could keep up. He comes into detail, just metres from the finish line, but collapses on the ground with a cry of 'Gordie Howe!' He begins to crawl pathetically, as Gwen continues to walk on two feet. Although I did not make it far in this competition, I would still feel so much more personally vindicated if Owen won, and chances are disappearing in front of him quicker than a plate of brownies would. Brownies. Do I smell _brownies? _

Izzy comes through with a plate of warm brownies. For an instant, I'm confused, but it doesn't take long for me to put the pieces together. She uses the fan to waft the scent of chocolate towards the drained and sweltering Owen. In a burst of dying energy, he erupts from the ground, in a hungered frenzy. He takes on an incredible speed to reach his precious baked goods. At this moment, I understand the cause of Owen's size – he may be able to run for 4 kilometres, but he downs 700 calories worth of brownies immediately afterwards. Quite the diet plan if you ask me.

His body tenses like a hippo charging through water, mouth opening wide like the massive water-horses, as well. He gallops at an erratic and unbounded pace, breath tearing from his throat loudly. Through his skin, the strain of his body can be seen – the sharp burning within his ancient muscles, long buried by layers of fat. He cries out like a Neanderthal hunter closing in on a mammoth, or perhaps like like mammoth itself. It is impressive to say the least, just when we thought we'd seen the peak of Owen's athleticism, the temptation of deep chocolate goodness wrenches from him the last of his reserved power.

I jump to my feel and cheer, unbridled. The others join me. I feel excited, so excited, so unusual for me, but I enjoy the feeling. Noah is screaming, Owen is running, Izzy has a good idea, everything is upside down today. Owen takes his mammoth/rhino/hippopotamus likeness to the logical extreme, barreling directly into his mate at the finish line. He crashes into the ground, brownies flying, raining down on him in cocoa ecstasy. We bolt from our seats and run to him to bask in his victory.

Screaming rings in my ears, so many hands grab at Owen that I can't even tell who owns what pair. I eat a brownie off the ground. The party hasn't even started but I feel the energy already. I almost need to stop and think, how unusual it is for me to feel so excited, I've never engaged in the thrill of a sports victory, I've never felt the pulse in my skull at the vibrant exuberance of some kid's party. I'd always just sit. Maybe Owen has that effect on you – making you feel just as innocent and good-natured as him. In any case, I'm happy for him. I'm happy.

* * *

In front of the crackling fire, the twenty two of us sit together for what might be the last time. All eyes are on Owen, and for once, no one, not even Gwen, is envious. He crams his victory marshmallow into his maw and throws his fists to the sky.

"Party at my place next week!" He shouts.

I smile warmly, but with a hint of malice. I wonder if the camera crews will follow us to this party? Maybe their contracts will be worn out by then. Part of me hopes so, but I know inside that something juicy is bound to happen at that party. I can't say for certain what – almost everyone in this group already hooked up with someone else, half of us have done a censored nude scene, and many of us have vomited, so I honestly don't know how it could devolve any further than that, but I'm sure an Owen party is as massive and eccentric as he is.

He begins to waddle towards his seat.

"Is that a wrap? I think that's a wrap. Wow, we're actually done." Chris says nonchalantly. He looks directly into the nearest camera, which remains fixated on him.

"Yo Owen, you know what it's time for?" Geoff says with a gesture. I glance towards him – I'm under the assumption they want to get the party started early, or perhaps make a feeble attempt at re-constructing the hot tub from the start of last month.

Evidently, they have other plans in mind, I notice as three of the stronger boys close in on Chris. With one grabbing him by the feet, one at the shoulders, and one supporting his midsection, the smaller man is easily lifted from the ground. Amid cheers, he is dragged to the edge of the dock and tossed into the lake. For a moment, he bemoans the destruction of his hairdo, but slipped between his gripes, a few lines of bureaucracy such as 'don't forget the waivers you signed!' rear their heads.

With a snort, I migrate back to the bonfire, as do the majority of us. We make a mutual and unconscious decision to stay at the fire until we can burn away at least some of our negative memories of the past month and a half.

I catch sight of Cody giving Tyler a demonstration of his habitual, gesticulated cool-kid talk. Tyler looks on with a hint of confusion, but a sort of acceptance. They might actually be birds of a feather, both so much more incompetent than they even realize. The muscles of my eye sockets urge themselves to roll, as they are so accustomed to doing, but the smile on my face belies any irritation I could possibly feel towards Cody. If I observe him speaking to someone who isn't me, it sort of drives home how awkwardly wonderful he can be…

I cease my staring and plop down on a log stool. To my surprise, our crowned victor lumbers over to me, wood creaking as his ass makes contact. I raise my hand to limply pat his robust forearm, in a sort of failed congratulatory gesture.

"Some good work out there, man." I say, realizing the unusualness of the punctual 'man'.

"Thanks buddy! I saw you cheering me on, it made me wanna win even more! Well, that and the brownies." His voice lowers slightly in pitch and drags over the word 'brownies', almost to emphasize his sensual obsession with the luxurious treat.

"_My _cheering made you excited?" I say with a narrow smile.

"Oh of course! You act like you don't care but you're a super funny guy. Smart too! I was sure if I had you on my side, I must be…worthy!"

A small explosion of laughter erupts through my teeth, sending a small dot of spit flying.

"Super funny and smart. Gee, thanks. You might be the first person here to compliment me!"

"Why would anyone speak bad of you? They just don't know you 'cause you left so early. But they didn't give you a chance! When you gave me one of your fun sized Smartie boxes on the first day, I thought, wow this guy is great! We should be friends. Too bad you left so early though!"

I feel a bit flustered at his earnest appreciation of me. I thought all the gophers hated my guts except possibly Cody because they only remembered my bad parts and not my good, I guess I was a bit of a one trick pony. The lazy kid. The token brown bookworm. But I do need to take his comments with a grain of salt, Owen doesn't have a mean bone in his entire body.

"So…" I start, trying to move the topic away from myself. "What do you want to do with the money?"

"Party!" He yells, a bit too loudly, and with the required accompanying arm gestures.

"Owen bud, you can't spent 100 000$ on a party, that's irresponsible and wasteful."

"Irresponsible and wasteful…listen to you! A party isn't a waste, it's a valuable life experience, just like coming here! Although I guess maybe a hundred-K is a bit much for a party. So I'll probably get some nice stuff for my Mom because she's just so great…maybe I'll get her expensive cookware! That's a present for her, and kinda a present for me too! Indirectly, I mean!"

"Well my advice is, blow the money in installments on parties. With a load like that, you could have the best birthday parties every year til you're 30, depending on how high quality you go with the booze once you hit the college years."

"Wow you're right! My brother is turning nineteen at the end of this month and I could give him money for all the Pabst Blue Ribbon in the _World!_"

I laugh openly at that one, it just seems like such an _Owen _thing to say.

"You should have a little party the night before we leave at the Playa. I think you'd like it there, they have food and a pool and the toilet paper is actually name-brand and not single-ply."

His eyes light up. "Sounds _awesome._ But anyway buddy I'm gonna go see the girls now! Take care!"

I nod. Everything that guy says sounds like it's followed by a colon-D smiley face. It makes me smile. He starts to meander over towards Lindsay and Beth, but gets distracted by the fact that Duncan managed to sneak several dozen all-beef wieners over to the island and is now charring them over the bonfire.

For a moment, I space out, but I am brought back by a sudden itching tickle on my shoulder. I turn to see a mess of fiery hair, far too close for comfort. Izzy has her face centimetres from mine, narrow, browless eyes alien and opened frighteningly wide.

"Hey No-Wah" she says.

"Um, Hi." I try to keep it cool. "So are you…" I swallow. "Proud of your…man?" The last word sounds even more awkward here than it did when I opened the conversation with Owen.

"Oh yes, so much. Izzy thinks that this money would be helpful to her plans. Izzy set up a PO box long ago for particular internet purchases, but has yet to use it due to lack of funds." Her voice quiets. "Then again I don't imagine accepts Tim Hortons gift cards! But it is worth a shoooot"

She drags the last word out slowly. I realize in horror, Owen's a cool guy, but if I want to be his friend, I have to deal with his insane girlfriend.

"Um no, they probably don't. Good investigation." I say, uncomfortable.

"You're a handsome guy."

Oh God, is this really fucking happening. "Thanks…"

"I like your nose."

"Thanks…" I squeak.

"If you ever need to find your place in a, oh, glass menagerie, I know a certain duo of compadres who would be quite ready to entertain the notion. I think, I haven't asked Owen."

My mouth opens to say 'what', but I needn't say it for my expression speaks it loudly enough.

"I mean if you want to be a third wheel of course! Why have a bike when you can have a wheelbarrow?"

My jaw still hangs open in confusion. Is she saying what I _think _she's saying, or rather, is she saying what _I really hope she isn't saying? _

"Oh nevermind, you silly, you need to read more than books. If you change your mind come see me, Jethro! We should hang out some time! Of course, I know you already find yourself occupied with a certain somebody-somebody." She says as she stands. "Squawk to you!" She says as a sort of goodbye.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat and search around for someone new to talk to. Trent and Gwen are tightly bound, Leshawna still doesn't like me, Cody seems occupied talking to Lindsay, Tyler, Bridgette… I ultimately decide to sit close to them, even if I stay silent, they'd remain a sort of protection to me. I'd honestly prefer if Izzy never spoke to me again, ever.

* * *

The following morning we came to in staggered awakenings at about seven to seven thirty AM. Most of us sat at the fire until it petered into embers, not long before the sun rose. We caught a few fleeting moments of shut-eye between twilight and dawn.

My eyes peel open and I'm lying on the ground. Cody is beside me, but our bodies don't touch. He is curled up in a ball between me and Bridgette, who, unsurprisingly, has her head resting in Geoff's armpit. This brings back lukewarm memories of the Big Sleep over a month ago. If I were brave, I'd put my arms around Cody right now, and he'd never know the difference, but I don't know if the reward would be worth it. If I were stupid, I guess I'd do it – if I were _really _stupid, I'd kiss him, too! I roll onto my back and the bones in my spine pop, pressing into the uneven shape of the hard earth beneath me. The sky is mostly blue, with an early-morning hue of yellow covering us. I squint in the summer brightness.

The recollection of the Awake-a-thon makes me imagine for a brief moment that the horrifying and short conversation with Izzy last night didn't happen, but I'm sure I have no such luck. I'll only need to remind myself to not fall asleep or take prescription medication in her presence.

I prop myself up and rub my eyes with a light groan. Upon looking around, I notice most of the campers are also stirring already, eyes unable to stay shut when exposed to the blazing, cloudless sky. I muster the gumption to venture a hand gently to Cody's hair.

"Cody. You up?"

He whimpers. "Did I win?"

I smile and shift my position, winding up cross-legged. I rustle his hair playfully.

"Yep, you did, actually! Didn't think you'd make it but you sure love brownies. Gwen was cheering for you, and she'd pretty pleased with you!"

He rolls around to face me, eyes opening a slit, still pasted shut by corners of beige gunk. "Noah. You bastard."

"Did you ever think we could wake each other in a _pleasant _way?" I snicker.

He stretches and I hear his knees pop into place. A tiny 'ouch' exits his mouth.

"I think I slept on a root."

"Come on, let's get up. The sooner everyone's awake, the sooner we can get back to the other side of the lake."

Eyes red and hair matted, we drag ourselves to the dock for the least shameful of rides back to the playa – not before seven or eight of us start jabbing Harold with sticks to rouse him, as he is the last one up. Predictably, upon returning to the house, the majority of us immediately slam back into bed. A good portion the campers don't even bother to return to their rooms, instead resorting to a kind of snuggle-orgy in the main living room on the massive leather sofa. I am not among them.

* * *

It's somewhat hard to fathom that today marks the end of this ordeal. In a way, I've waited for this day for awhile, but it's still bittersweet to depart from this place, however tormenting it was. In all honesty, when I was still in the competition, I wanted it to be over so I could be the winner. When I got eliminated, I wanted it to be over so I could get home. But I've gotten accustomed to being here. The people aren't perfect, the conditions on the island itself broke several codes, but I grew a sort of masochistic enjoyment out of being here.

Which I suppose is why, as I stand here jamming my things into my suitcase, I feel a hint of misery despite the fact that I should be feeling washed in a sea of excitement. I should be counting down the minutes, but I'm not. I look to my vanity and see it empty except for my toothbrush, hairbrush, and a singular face-cloth. The closet is empty, too. Now I have five copies of that same sweater-vest thing.

Here's a little secret about our show: at the start, we needed to choose a shirt from a nearby clothing outlet and we were purchased five copies of it. I'm not even kidding. We wear the same thing day in and day out, it's bound to get dirty or even destroyed, so it's useful to have extras handy. I'm just not exactly sure what I'll do with all these identical shirts when I get home. Maybe I'll give them to the sibs as hand-me-ups?

I smoosh my suitcase forcefully and try to pull the zipper around the perimeter, struggling at the corners. I have all fourteen of my books in there, each one stacked carefully and cushioned by clothes, because God forbid someone so much as dog-ear one of my novels. When I get the damn suitcase closed, I push myself off of it with a gasp. This counts as heavy exercise for me.

I sit on my bed and glance about the room that had been my home for five or six weeks and feel the slightly sense of nostalgia. Would I say I like it here? No. But it ended up being less painful than I expected.

So I imagine that's why I feel a tug at my heart when I imagine never sleeping in this bed again.

I hear a rap at my door and I predict who it is. I get up swiftly and open it.

"Ready for the _sick party tonight? _" Cody says when I open the door, wringing his hands.

"This is literally the first party of your life isn't it."

"No –"

"If none of your female friends had their periods yet last time you had a party, that doesn't count."

"Well…"

"If there was Dungeons & Dragons, that doesn't count."

"But…"

"It's okay, it's fine, relax you'll have a good time tonight, I'm sure. Just don't _embarrass _yourself, for the love of God."

He looks up at me, with a hint of a smirk, but an innocent smirk. I melt a little.

"Well, you're coming, right?"

"Nah…parties aren't really my scene."

He looks genuinely hurt for an instant. I shove him into my room and let the door shut behind me.

"I'm kidding, Cody, of course I'll be there. It's in our own house, how can I _not _be there?"

"You finished Atlas Shrugged during one of Eva's rampages."

"Ah-ah-ah, 'Eva's rampages' falls in with 'ten year olds playing mini putt' and 'nerds playing D&D' in the category of things that 'aren't parties'."

He pads over to my bed and meekly attempts to lift my suitcase off my bed. He mostly just drags it to the floor. He sits on my bed and brings his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his bony, hairy legs.

"So like do we need to bring something to this party?"

"You got weed?"

His eyes widen. "No!"

"Then no."

"Someone's going to have weed?"

"I almost hope someone _does, _just so the hammer of the law can come down hard on Chris and on TeleTeen, but I'm pretty sure that would _not _be the result, and Duncan spending the next 8 years in prison _would _be."

"Well then…" he shifts his gaze to the side for a second. "Do I need to wear something particular?"

"I'd suggest one of the four remaining copies of that striped sweater that _doesn't _have blood and holes from a bear's paw in it."

"I actually kept the shirt I wore during the bear attack! Although it's actually just a bloody rectangle of fabric. I should make a blanket out of it! Or…or a teddy bear! Wouldn't that be _twisted? _"

I turn at him with a disbelieving smile and turn back to my random fiddling of leftover objects on my dresser. "It doesn't really matter. We're just getting together to…say goodbye."

"That's kind of sad!" He says empathetically.

"I suppose you're right. I'm sure some people will be sad."

"Won't you be?"

"Ah, I dunno." I say with a sigh. "I didn't really get to know everyone that well, they kind of ignored me except for you, Owen, and…" I shudder instead of saying 'Izzy.' "At least, I didn't get much _positive _attention."

He stays silent for a second. My back is turned to him, but I know he's observing me. "We're meeting in the basement lounge at seven?"

"Mh hm." I turn my head. He glances at the clock on my beside table and slides off the bed, expulsing a breath.

"I'll be back."

He slips out my door. I motion a hand towards the alarm clock, turning it towards me to check the time. It's ten after six – the girls, being girls, are probably already dressed and ready. I should probably 'choose something to wear', and by choose something to wear, I mean decide between one of the two outfits I left hanging in my closet instead of packing up with everything else. Right now, I'm wearing shorts and a plain white t-shirt, which isn't party material. I throw my closet open. The two garments for my consideration are a burgundy top with a pocket on the left breast, and a collared American Eagle shirt that I'm pretty sure I stole from my brother Gabriel. I decide the former looks really, really gay, so I go with Gabriel's shirt.

I toss that on, throw on some jeans, and begin to brush back my dark, wavy hair. As I gaze at myself in the mirror, I suddenly think to myself that I'm glad to not be bald. And then I snicker darkly, remembering Heather. When I reach the last lock of my hair above my left ear, I hear another rap at my door. I don't hesitate to reach for the doorknob.

Cody stares back at me. "Do I look appropriate?" He holds his hands out. He's dressed in dark-coloured jeans and a button-up red plaid shirt. He actually looks rather splendid. My mouth splits into a smile.

"You've got it." I say. He slides into my room under the arm that props open the door. I release the door behind him.

Instead of sitting down on my bed like he usually does, he circles around in my room. He reaches the window and flicks the locking knob up and down.

"I think I should do something nice for her."

I put my hairbrush down on my vanity. "For who, Gwen?"

"Yeah." He affirms. "I mean I don't think she's sad she lost. Or maybe she is? I'm not sure. But I should do something nice for her, so she'll remember me."

I lean back against the vanity and give him my full attention, raising an eyebrow. He continues: "Well I'm not sure what I could do, I don't want to do anything flashy or embarrassing, I just want to look cool, like worthwhile….I want her to _remember me._"

"She _will _remember you, don't be crazy. "

He directs his eyes straight into mine. "But will she _miss _me?"

I open my mouth to speak, but I am unsure of what to respond.

"I never had my chance with her, but I got to see her, and seeing her makes me happy, and then I won't see her anymore, and that will make me unhappy. Right?"

Something echoes inside me as he says this.

"So I guess tonight is my last chance to make sure she never forgets."

I finally muster up something to say: "Don't think of it too hard. Have a good time tonight and be…you. Not the you that tries so hard, just…" I search for words, knowing I sound stupid. "The you that I know."

He laughs. "I don't know if everyone _else_ is as impressed with that."

"And people are _sooo _impressed with your cool guy schtick…"

"Point taken." He breathes heavily and fiddles with the window lock again, twisting it down into the closed position. "What time is it?"

"Six fifty four."

"We should definitely go."

"Ye." I mutter.

We both make our way to the door. In the instant before my fingers surround the doorknob, he speaks again.

"Oh and Noah?"

Before I can even turn to him, his hair is in my face and his arms tangle loosely around my chest.

"I'm going to miss you a lot. I mean it."

A heavy lungful of air fills me, in a state of surprise. Unsure of where to place my hands, I leave them hover above him as he hugs me. I think this is unwise, but I can't think of an alternative. My heart flutters.

"I'm going to miss you too. Actually –" I choke on the syllables. "More than anyone else, really."

I finally decide to let my arm fall over him, too. I close my lips tightly and I am overcome with the sudden realization that I might never see him again after tonight, and that yet another parallel has been drawn between my situation and his with Gwen. I believe much of the bittersweetness I experienced upon the contemplation of my departure is due entirely to leaving _him._ As I break the embrace, I quickly grab at the doorknob and we slide out the door. I let him out before me and watch him as he walks a pace ahead. He turns to make sure I'm still there, and gives a small gap-toothed smile. I've never really had to miss someone before.

* * *

**I finally updated! It took precisely 100 days! I got some nice reviews in the space between my latest chapter and now. The first block of this sat in my computer gathering mould for two months and I realized, I just need to GET R DONE. I think it turned out pretty good... I've had some personal experience in the past few months that really serve as inspiration I guess. Now that I'm done school for the year, you can at least hope that I keep this story updated. Thanks for reading! :D **


	7. Horror Story

From the moment I enter the basement lounge, I recognize that Owen and Geoff took care to peruse every cliché of grungy teen party set-ups in preparation for tonight's festivities. The basement lounge is not the largest room in the house at all – the kitchen/dining room area is easily triple the size and contains sufficient seating for all of us, along with refreshments. However, the basement contains a pool table, and whether or not anyone winds up playing, it's not an A-grade locale for a party without the presence of a pool table.

The basement is divided between a room almost reminiscent of a bar – wooden panelled walls, a high table with four stools, and some kitschy artwork on the walls. The other side is more dimly-lit, lined with large leather sofas, and a huge flat-screen television on the wall. The two sections of the basement are separated by a wall that only comes halfway across – there's no door, just a gap in the wall. The stairs are narrow and steep, cutting close to the ceiling at the top. I don't need to duck coming down, but someone taller likely would.

I creep down slowly, Cody behind me, scanning the room to see if others have already come down. The more extroverted of the housemates are already standing around the barstools, chatting with mild restraint. Expectedly, Owen is the first to notice me. I crack a slightly uncomfortable smile and make my way to the bottom of the stairs.

"Noah! Buddy! So glad you could make it!" He gathers me in his arms and clenches tightly. I feel my bones crunch together like tectonic plates.

"Well." I squeak, as his grip stays unrelenting. "I was in the neighbourhood and I'd figure…" I take a breath. "I'd drop by!"

He chuckles. "In the neighbourhood! You're such a jokester." He turns his attention to Cody, giving him a fist-bump and an exclamation of 'hey man'.

I'm startled by a jingling clatter and turn away from the two of them. Duncan has appeared holding a canvas bag, glass clanking sounds made as he slams the bag on the pool table. One by one, he pulls out a mish-mash of bottles, alcoholic beverages. The selection seems random, cheap vodkas I've never heard of and a few of those heart-attack-in-a-can drinks made from alcohol and energy drinks.

"Dude!" Geoff cries out. "How'd you get that?"

"I have connections." Duncan says with a smirk. "But I had to bust my balls to get this stuff, and there isn't much, so if you're gonna drink, make it worthwhile. Don't be a pussy about it, 'ight?"

Owen nabs the single small bottle of chocolate-flavoured liqueur. "Ooh, this looks _yummy._"

Duncan snatches it out of his hand. "Hold up, big guy, if you want chocolate feel free to gorge yourself on the almond milk upstairs. You'd probably down this in two seconds, bottle and all."

Owen appears completely unfazed and turns his attention to a bowl of cheezies resting on the bar table. I gaze at the bottles lying on the fuzzy green surface of the table. I hesitate for a moment, contemplating my options. I _could _take a drink, but Duncan seems to be guarding his stash like a dragon at his treasure horde. It makes me question why he'd bring this stuff anyway if he was only looking to hog it. Besides, I've managed to not embarrass myself too thoroughly throughout the season and I'd like to keep that up. In another world, I'd take a small tumbler of the fanciest wine or brandy possible and nurse it with the utmost pretention for the next two hours, but Duncan is not a man of fancy aged wines and brandies, he's the type of guy who would get his alcohol from Wal-Mart if we lived in the states. I glance at Cody. I simply raise an eyebrow as a vague hint of a question.

"What? No, no, no, I couldn't, it's…Duncan would break my fingers!" he whispers

"Duncan would break fingers for lesser offenses." I scoff.

He cracks smile. "Not reassuring." He peers around the wall's edge into the tv room side of the basement. "I think someone made Youtube Poop of our show. Wanna take a look?"

* * *

By eight-thirty, approximately everybody in the playa des losers has made their appearance in the lounge. With a total of twenty-one – one newly-razed Asian short of the entire family – the room has become tightly-packed and near stifling. I sit on the corner of the love-seat sofa. Love seats are so named because they are the size for a couple to sit together, but we've somehow decided to accommodate four asses on the seat. Cody sits beside me, chatting up Lindsay and her Tyler-of-the-day, Ezekiel. I sit listlessly, Dr. Pepper in hand.

For much of my time spent at the island, I looked upon my time at school very fondly, particularly the parties, as some kind of condolence to how frankly unpopular I found myself to be here. However, when I think of it closely, parties aren't really that great sometimes. I feel a bit out of place, not sure who to talk to.

After watching Owen slowly polish off the last of the Cheezies, I look over at Cody, who seems to be adjusting rather well.

"Haha, that's soooo funny! We did the _exact same thing _a few days ago!" Lindsay says to him empathetically. She points to herself and then to Ezekiel. "Remember?"

Ezekiel, who had not had much of a part in the dialogue, stalls. "Um, no. I don't think that was me. "

Lindsay frowns.

"It was probably you and Tyler." Zeke adds.

"I thought _you _were Tyler!"

Cody, who detects my gaze, turns to me and smirks. "You getting sweaty on this sofa?"

"Honey, you can read my mind." I say, peeling my forearm from the arm of the couch. "At least we're wearing pants." I gesture at Lindsay's bare thighs as Cody and I rise to our feet. "She's probably going to leave an epidermis behind when she stands up."

"This party is poppin'." He says, as we move between Courtney and Leshawna on our way to the other part of the room.

"I've had better."

"You think Duncan is still…by the pool table?" He gives me a meaningful look.

My eyebrows rise with a smirk. "Getting ideas, are we?"

He avoids my eyes and hurries towards the pool table, stopping abruptly the moment he lifts his head. Gwen is leaning up on the other side, kissing Trent deeply. I approach Cody slowly. I utter a tiny 'uhh', but don't say anything concrete. He stares at them. He's staring them down while they make out. I mumble close to silently: "Earth to creepy…" but he remains frozen, watching them.

She continues to kiss him, light, pleasant groans escaping them. He has coloured marks along his neck, as does she – but I know they aren't crude attempts at vampirism so much as a consequence of Gwen's choice in lipstick. They part, their eyes slits, dwelling on one another for a lingering instant. Fortuitously, I avert my eyes before they spot me – they turn their gaze to Cody first.

It takes a split second for him to realize his awkward position. Flustered, he fumbles at the bottles on the table, feigning activity. He knocks over a red solo-cup and puts it upright again. He gropes for the cap of a large bluish bottle and unscrews it, forcing himself to keep his eyes on his hands and not on either of them, though he remains aware of their quizzical assessment of him. He sloppily pours several fingerfulls of the fiery, clear liquid into the plastic cup. He looks at Gwen with a self-conscious grin.

"I." His mouth twitches, then becomes toothier. "I promise, um I _propose _a toast? To…"

My skin flushes violently watching him flounder. Not since seeing my sister forget her solos at the 2002 school spring concert have I felt so empathetic to somebody's blundering embarrassment. To lessen the tension, I approach him with my pop can in hand, ready to take him up on his toast.

"To, um." He struggles for words.

"To Gwen!" I fill in, with a smile and a nudge to Cody. "To Gwen for being such a…a _gracious loser._" I say, with a wink. I don't think Gwen likes me, but I hope for all our sakes she is not offended by our little toast.

She looks at Trent inquisitively, then to me and Cody. Her confusion melts into a smile, paired with a shrill giggle. She picks up a shot glass painted with the image of a moose and holds it up. After a short delay, Trent joins in with a can of pepsi, and Owen barrels over with the last fistful of Cheezies as his toast offering. We raise our glasses.

Cody downs the entire cup of vodka, pouring it down his throat like a marathoner guzzling Gatorade. My eyes widen in fear. His adam's apple bobs, his eyes screw shut. He swallows and slams the cup down. His lips are tight. I don't blink, I simply stare at him with a painted look of concern. Simultaneously, Gwen and Trent turn away from him, and he turns to me. Once he is no longer under their supervision, he buckles over with a sputtering cough. "My nostrils!" he moans pathetically. I seize him by the shoulders as he hacks up a sizeable glob of phlegm from his throat. "Why do people do this?" He rasps.

I snicker. "Most people don't drink plastic cups full of straight vodka. And most people don't toast without having something to toast."

"Why should I take social cues from you?" he replies. "You are just a dick to everyone."

"Building walls!"

"Alcohol tears 'em down."

"You see me drinking? Now get up off the floor."

He leans on me to stand again. He thinks I don't notice when he sneaks another sip of vodka into the cup. I act like I don't.

* * *

Anyone who wanted to drink has done so by now, and anyone who didn't want to has been naturally loosened up by the atmosphere. I reach a degree of comfort; as much as I can sitting on the sticky, leathery sofa. Maybe it's because I sit alone, feet propped up on the second cushion. Six or seven people are taking their turns at Wii sports, so the extra space on the sofa goes unoccupied. I keep a wary eye on Cody throughout, but he seems to be nimbly chatting up _Justin _of all people, so I assume he's feeling perfectly on high.

Any degree of comfort attained by my lack of company on the sofa instantaneously fizzles as a familiar redhead approaches me with a grin. She sits on my legs, almost bending them backwards at the knees. I let out a yelp.

"Izzy! That is not a chair!"

"Course I know that, prettypony, chairs don't yell. Chairs aren't _sexy _either, except for nice antique chairs with carved backings and flowery upholstery!"

"Antiques are sexy." I repeat, deadpan.

"Or chairs with armstraps! Like cuffs! That can be sexy too!" She yells, as if this revelation is new. I would run, but she's sitting on my legs. This is like some kind of Jigsaw situation right here.

"So are you enjoying the party No-wah, that Owen sure knows how to throw 'em! Too bad he's also a fat bastard!" She squeals with an unreadable, manic warble.

"Ah…"

"Izzy is mad at Owen. Though at the moment she can't remember why. She just feels it. Sometimes I wish I chose someone else but no one else is single, sadface! Sadface indeed!"

If I were a sane man I'd have kept my mouth shut, but without thinking, I say: "I'm single."

She expels a sound of 'pfft!' along with a splatter of saliva.

"You can't fool me, you have a lover."

"Um."

"I hear you and Cody through the _walls!"_

"Doing what, pray tell?" I say, outraged.

"Heeheehee." She responds. I begin to squirm, contorting my legs beneath her.

"Yep, okay, you got me!" I say, desperate to escape. "Cody is my lover! And, um, that's why I need to go! To make sure my _lover _is okay, so if you can just…get off my legs, I'd really be happy." I continue to struggle and squirm until, in one fluid motion, almost defying logic, she propels herself off of me and my legs snap out from under her with a force nearly sufficient for me to knee myself in the teeth. I roll off the sofa and scan for Cody. Maybe the 'we're lovers' thing was a ruse, but my concern for his wellbeing is sadly not quite such a thing.

At that moment, the _third _horror of the evening sets into me.

Cody is waltzing over towards the love-seat in which Gwen and Trent sit.

Cody is sitting down between them.

Cody puts one arm around each of them.

I stay frozen in my place, grimace on my face. This is definitely not good. The way he steadied himself before sitting down, the loose, watery smile on his face – all these hints add to a single plausible conclusion: Cody Anderson drank too much.

He runs twirls a finger through a lock of hair on the back of Gwen's head. For good measure, he does the same to Trent. The pair seem too surprised to do anything about it.

"Gwen, you look pretty today." He says. "Do you look…different or am I making that up."

She slowly slips out an 'uhh'.

"Sorry about toasting you, I just wanted to toast you because I like you and you deserve to get toasted. Not like fire though, like bread. You deserve to have a toast dedicated to you." He suddenly directs his attention towards Trent. "And you too! I mean if she chose you, then you must be pretty great, right."

"Cody, have you been…" Trent says quietly.

"I know I don't have a shot anymore but like, if you ever want to have a threesome or something…. Aw, FUCK." I'd never heard him say the f-word before. "Did I seriously just say that? I'm so sorry guys."

I realize that in this moment, Cody transitioned into Izzy-level creepiness, so I hurry over to him and grab his hand from behind Trent's head. For the first time in awhile, I fluster deeply from contact with Trent, but for a very different reason than before. "I apologize in Cody's honour." I say to the couple. I grasp Cody's wrists tightly and pull him up from off the sofa. "You are messing up, definitely need to go someplace else. Okay Cody? Let's sit down." He complies, a look of disgust marring his look of bliss – he knows he said something stupid, and he recognizes that he couldn't filter himself.

He follows me to the bottom of the stairs, where we sit down. He leans his head on my shoulder, ever so slightly. As a measure of comfort, I lean my head against his, as well. "You should watch what you say, you look like an imbecile."

"I am an imbecile. But I'll be more careful."

"You're drunk."

"I'm…buzzed."

I breathe out noisily. "Fine. Keep your filter on though, you fool, when you drink you don't realize you're being stupid until two seconds _after _you've done something idiotic."

"I wanna play wii."

"You wanna play wii?"

"Yes."

"As long as you tighten the wrist strap."

"Okay. I'll do that."

His face gains a certain softness from the slight inebriation. If I kissed him now, he's certainly sober enough to remember it, but maybe just un-sober enough to blame it on himself. I laugh out loud at the very idea, ruffle his hair, and stand up. "Let's go play wii, then."

One day, quite awhile ago, Tyler, Bridgette, Cody and I spent a good two and a half hours making accurate Mii avatars for everbody in the competition. I select my own Mii, dressed in red with a furrowed scowl on his face. He appears on screen wearing boxing gloves, looking mean. On the other side of the screen, an equally surly, unibrowed woman appears. I beam at the opportunity – the only time I'll ever fist-fight Eva without it counting as some strange variant of assisted suicide. However, I can't overlook the many ways it could go awry.

The bell chimes and I flap my arms frantically. Eva tries too hard to punch in real life, putting all her momentum in her controller-clutching fists and tiring herself out, while I simply rattle my hands back and forth quickly enough to deliver a virtual pummeling. She grits her teeth and squeezes the controllers hard enough to nearly break them. Courtney's voice can be heard in the background to say "Oh my _God_, it's just a game!"

With a swing of my virtual right, I send Eva's mii careening into the floor. The timer counts down, and my mii is seen showered in confetti. I shake my fist victoriously.

"So, who'd have thought NOAH would be the first person in this house to say that they K.O.'d Eva?" I say. It's met with some snickers. I turn around to face Cody.

He isn't there. He's sauntered back over to the barstools, where Gwen and Trent sit. Oh, no.

"Cody!" I call after him, handing my controller off to Harold. I shuffle over to the bar-table.

"I'm so sorry about earlier" Cody apologizes to Gwen. "Like, I wouldn't ask to have a threesome with you, that's so rude, the couple's supposed to ask, not the three-wheel. I mean, ugh, I mean. I'm sorry, you're so hot, it's not fair. I always really liked you."

"Cody." I say, finally right behind him. He ignores me.

"Like I wanna be a big player but I can't, never can, cause I always like someone too much, like, I couldn't even have a threesome, no 'cause like, I'd fall in love with them and then go insane. Not that I'd go insane from being in love with you. Oh, shit, I'm messing up. I mean, I love you. Yeah, but I don't want to infringe."

"Cody." I repeat.

"I love you." He says to Gwen. Her face warps into a look of monstrous horror. Cody's love confession notwithstanding, I'd not trade places with Gwen at this moment.

"Cody!" I snarl at him.

"What!" He turns to me, a pleading look in his eyes. I melt, and suddenly my embarrassment sublimates into a deeper level of empathy.

"You should take a drink of something, like water. Or go to bed."

"I'm not even drunk, I'm trying to explain myself." I look at him dismissively. My attention turns to Gwen and Trent.

"Is he explaining himself, guys?"

They shake their heads, wide-eyed.

"Yeah, Cody, we should go someplace. Sit down. No more booze, no more Gwen."

He slips out of his seat and paws at Gwen and Trent. "M' sorry, real sorry." He strokes Gwen on the jaw and leans over to Trent, planting an awkward kiss on his right shoulder. "I'll go away now."

We make our way back to the stairs where we'd sat following his last screw-up. He reclines sloppily. "Did I mess up again?" he says weakly.

"Yeah, sort of." I sigh.

"Aw."

He doesn't say any words, but his sentiment is palpable. "Wanna know what."

"What."

"I never drank or went to parties before."

"Huh." I can't say anything that isn't scathingly sarcastic, so I don't say anything.

"Yep, I don't go to parties and I don't have friends and God knows I won't ever date anybody."

"You do have friends."

"Not many, and I don't go to parties, and after tonight I guess I'm going to get party blacklisted or something."

"Ah, come on…" I'm not very good at this comforting thing.

"Yeah because girls laugh at me and everything, everyone thinks I'm a kid, I can't be a player but I can't be in love either, pretty crappy. And I'm not even _that _drunk, I don't think, like, what if I got _hammered."_

"Honestly, Cody?"

"What."

"You're making next to no sense right now."

He sighs deeply. "I messed up with Gwen and now she's going to remember me as a loser, and that same thing will continue to happen to me forever because I _am _ a loser."

"Some people like losers." How brave I feel right now – I slide closer to him on the stair, until the entire right side of my body touches him. His eyes narrow to slits.

"Haven't found one yet."

"Don't be so sure." I say, so small but so clear. Why am I so courageous, suddenly? My heart suddenly throbs as his neck relaxes, toppling his head onto my shoulder once again. His blue-green eyes meet mine for a second, lips parted enough to see the narrow gap in his teeth. He looks down and his eyes close lightly once more. He lets escape a small breath and begins to mumble something I can't hear.

"What?"

"I'm not lucky." He says, though I can tell from the number of syllables that this is not what he'd said before.

Beneath us, on the step, our hands find each other, grazing just for an instant.

"Nobody is all the time." I say, slightly choked – this is a meaningless thing to say, but as the raucous sounds of partying fade into the background, I feel the need to fill in the gap.

I don't know who causes it, but our fingers tangle together. I'm holding his hand – or maybe he's holding mine? His head flops to the other side.

We stay like this for a moment of time, I'm ignorant of how long.

"I have to go." He says, rising to his feet. His clammy hand slips out of mine and he unfolds himself, turning up the stairs. I watch him go around the corner, and choose not to pursue him.

* * *

I crack open another Dr. Pepper and slouch down on sofa, trying to make sense of the universe. Okay, that might be a bit of a pretentious thing to say – in actuality, I'm mostly thinking of three things: What Cody did, what Cody will do next, and what Doctor Pepper is intended to taste like, because it kind of tastes like a vaguely cherry-flavoured Cola.

Cody is a fool, that much is for sure. He confessed his love to Gwen under the influence of a few drinks. But the tiniest aspect of tonight stuck out to me – namely, the way he fondled Trent. My narrow, Cody-centered mind can't help but extrapolate his attention to Trent to make it mean something. Of course, he confessed love to Gwen, touched her hair, sniffed her as usual, but he _kissed _Trent, albeit on the shoulder. Could it be some kind of misplaced jealousy, or could it possibly, just maybe, imply a degree of draw towards the male half of the pairing as well? My best bet is that it's a bit of both – misplaced jealousy that masquerades as desire.

Maybe I'm just thinking wishfully. Either way, any opportunity I had to make it with him had been long-dismissed. Dismissed before they even became a possibility, really. He seeks comfort in me, so what? I seek comfort in him, too, and after tomorrow, neither of us will have that refuge. Even if he had some secret, overwhelming crush on yours truly bubbling beneath the surface of his adolescent unorthodoxy, it will all go to waste because time has simply run out.

Maybe that's why I'm distressed by his interaction with Trent. It's not wishful thinking, it's _fearful _thinking – fearful thinking that I missed a legitimate opportunity, rather than simply accepting my lack of hope upfront.

To be fair, he put my head on my shoulder and held my hand. He's seeking comfort. I don't think I can provide it in this case. He knows he messed up in exactly the way he didn't want to.

My right eye is shut, focussing the left on the details of the pop can tab. I close my left and open the right, then repeat, letting the tab do a dizzying dance before my face. I look up from my busy activity of toying with the can-tab with my thumb, and Gwen and Trent come into the focus. If I could just slip under the cushions like the Big Comfy Couch right now, I'd be very happy with my life, but of course, I can't do that, and unsurprisingly, my new least favorite couple approaches me.

"Noah?" Gwen says with a broken voice.

I look up at them, tight-lipped and unimpressed.

"What was up with Cody?"

"Boy can't handle his liquor" I say, nonchalantly.

"Was he…serious?" She says

"Who knows?" I sigh, righting myself a bit. I glance up at them; they stare back expectantly. "Okay, let me specify: the part about loving you? He was serious." I take a sip of my drink. "Obviously." I add, with a hint of ruefulness. "About the threesome?" I say, arching an eyebrow and giving Trent the once-over for good measure, "Can't be sure, I don't know that side of him well."

They open their mouths to speak at the same time, but no sound escapes.

"So…" I gesture at the two of them. "Why do you care?"

"We don't." They say in unison.

"_Really?_"

Gwen's shoulders loosen and she resumes: "Seriously, don't tell Cody this, but I give exactly zero fucks about what he says or does. He's a little creep, but a _little _creep. I don't like him, I don't hate him, his presence has next to no effect on me at all."

I feel a lump form in my throat. "You grow to love him."

She looks to the side, then back at me. "Okay. Actually, he has his good sides. I see something, maybe this shred of kindness in him, this kind of sweetness, but then again, maybe that's just some kind of doormatty, misplaced nice-guy syndrome. Or maybe he is just a creep."

"He's a goddamn wonderful person is what he is." I snap.

Gwen's face goes blank, in shock.

I take another sip from my drink, my eyes never straying from her. "But maybe he's gotta grow up or something. Figure himself out."

She backpedals a little. "Um, yes, I'm not saying no one will ever love him or that he's an irredeemable loser or…anything like that. Just that it won't be me. Seriously. I want him to give up on me. You can even say it's for his sake."

I look to Trent. "What do you think, Mr. Dascenzo?" he recoils the slightest bit, surprised that I addressed him. He simply shrugs, raising his hands slightly. I make a sneer, denoting I'm weighting my possibilities.

"You think I should go talk to him?"

They glance to each other.

"Not about _you, _of course," I say, leaning forward and taking the soda can into both hands. "Just in general. I've been contemplating going to look for him for the better part of an hour now. Wait, is it really 11:20? Make that more than an hour."

"'sup to you." Trent says meekly.

I sigh heartily and rise from my seat. "Alrighty then, I'll go look for our favorite flightly featherweight A-sap. " I tip my drink in their direction. "I bid you adieu."

When I emerge out of the basement, I'm immediately struck by a front of chilly air. I realize just how stuffy it was downstairs, with the mass of bodies breathing their steamy exhaust into the atmosphere. The ground floor is still, only the potlights of the hallway illuminated. Moths smack against the windows with light 'plonks', ignorant of the glass that separates them from the tantalizing light.

I hear the quiet padding of footsteps in the tiled kitchen area.

"Cody?" I call out.

I slip between the dining room tables and past the smoothie island, over to the small alcove where the snack fridge resides. The fridge door is open towards me, its invader blocked from my point of view.

The door closes. The figure turns to me, and with a jump, shouts. The can of 7Up drops from their hands and rolls towards me. I place a toe on it to stop it from rolling.

"Noah." She says with a scowl. She lowers her near-bald head closer to the ground to reach for her lost beverage. "Don't you have a party to be at?"

"Technically I could ask you the same thing."

"Yes, because I was _totally _invited."

"Heather, we were _all _invited."

"As if anyone wanted to see me there." She scoffs. "There's not one person down there who doesn't hate me." She fiddles with the tab on her drink.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you…"

"Stuff it, Noah." She says, as the can's opening ruptures, sending white foam down her forearm. "Ugh!" she grunts.

I snort. "You're missing a hell of a time."

"Like I care." She rubs her sticky arm against her shorts. She's wearing sports shorts, a white shirt with what I guess is the name of her school, and socks. I don't think she's wearing makeup, and she looks awful, very unkempt compared to the Heather that presented herself on television. "Like I care." She repeats, quietly.

"Well." I say, crossing my arms. "_Gwen_ stuff happened!"

"Good for her." She says, trying to be nonchalant as she reaches for a paper towel. I feel guilty, almost like I'm betraying Cody, but I have this urge to cheer up Heather, as a testament to my ability to do _something _positive tonight.

"Cody drank."

"That's a Gwen story?"

"He told Gwen he loved her."

"Shocking." She says flatly.

"I like your sincerity." I say, ironically complimenting her sarcasm with more sarcasm.

"At least someone likes my something!" She says, kneeling down with paper towels in her hand, wiping up the 7Up.

"Between you and me, I don't like Gwen either."

For the first time since our conversation began, she looks at me with genuine interest.

"And I don't hate you, either. Don't get me wrong, you're pretty terrible, but I almost respect how terrible you can be. I wish I could gouge that low."

"What an incredibly backhanded compliment."

Some vague intelligence is exposing itself in Heather right now, and I have to admit I like it. For an instant, I almost forget my quest to find Cody.

"You're jealous of Gwen, aren't you." I venture. I try to go all criminal profiler on her– I don't want our back-and-forth to fizzle out yet.

"Why would you say that?" She inquires, more curious than offended.

"You are an alpha. A queen bee. You spend your time mocking blue-haired freaks, silently or overtly. And now you're here, on the island, getting one-upped by the kind of person you hate."

"You're going all Criminal Minds on me, Noah." She cracks a smile, the first I've seen from her in a while. "You know a lot about this…_being jealous of Gwen_ business." She says with a twisted smirk, as if she's trying to convey something in the context of her words. She tosses the soggy paper towels into the composter. "Maybe someday, I'll try to be a nicer girl. But not to her, never to her. She doesn't deserve anyone else doting over her."

I laugh. "She sure doesn't."

"And you know what's the one thing I don't get? She's _mean!_ Everyone says I'm mean, but she's mean too! She just isn't as smart about it! She thinks she's _so unique_, oh please, I'm so sure you're the only goth chick in all of Canada to get _aqua rush _streaks in her hair."

We spend a moment in silence.

"Are you going to go back to the party?" she says.

"Are you?"

"Nobody likes me down there." She utters flatly. "Polished off two episodes of Gossip Girl, now I guess I'll just go watch Mythbusters til I pass out."

I look upon her with utmost sympathy. What has happened to me? I'm sympathizing all over the place today. "Have fun with that." My tone is sarcastic, but I mean what I say.

She walks past me, towards the hallway.

"Oh and by the way," She turns to tell me before disappearing down the corridor. "Last I checked, _he's _in that room full of random fancy stuff upstairs. The loft, I guess you could call it."

I look at her quizzically. "Oh…Thanks."

* * *

I find him sitting at the piano bench upstairs. The din of the party is faint and muffled from the main floor, and up here it's next to silent – my ears feel cloudy from the sudden absence of stimulus. I stare at his back for a moment

"You had literally about an ounce and a half of alcohol."

He says nothing. He lifts his hands to the keys and pounds them lightly with his fingertips. A faint, slow, toneless dinging echoes from the piano.

"Okay, maybe more. I didn't check after that first chug during your toast."

Still quiet.

"I talked to Heather."

Don't know why I said this.

"Cody."

His notes begin to take the semblance of a simplistic melody, resonating through the body of the massive wooden piano. Up-down, up-down, up-up-up, down…He still doesn't look up at me.

I think he's not so drunk now. He's simply brooding. The alcohol in his system was a sort of self-preservation, to shield him from the immensity of his own fuck-up.

I step towards the bench, quietly. I don't understand the purpose of this room. It's a sort of attic containing various tarp-covered props and furniture. When I look around I can identify the odd prop that made its appearance on the show. Others I don't recognize, but I fear they will be used in the future against some unsuspecting newbies.

Silently, I slip behind him, ghosting a hand against his back as I take my place on the bench by his side.

He stays quiet, recognizing my presence without looking straight at me. His eyes are reddened, lined with greyish-purplish bags. His hands remain still as I seat myself.

"Cody."

He says nothing. He begins to play the simplest of tunes, an improvised minuet. I keep my hands at my sides, breath taut in my throat, holding my shoulders a hair's breadth from his body.

His eyes rooted on his fingers, he begins to incorporate a slightly more complex melody into his playing. He's actually a competent pianist. Some time ago, I'd seen his audition video for the show, in which he plays the keyboard very poorly. His abilities come as a surprise to me.

His notes are harmonic yet sparse, a song that seems so vacant and lonely, sung out through the fingers of one I'd thought so childish. The song is an expression of a longing child, a piano playing a solitary cadenza looking for its symphonic accompaniment. His left hand works over deep and slow notes, a rumble beneath the light and spacious melody worked out with his right. His gaze does not leave his fingers. His eyes never shut.

My throat tightens up as I hear his song, as if I've heard it before.

Or maybe as if I've felt the things the song expresses.

There must be something mystifying in this piece of music to allow me, as sarcastic and biting as I am, to be moved, to feel connected to it.

The notes still have this space in between, empty slots like the space between fingers, where another hand can fit. This seems meaningful. I dare to raise my hands. For the briefest moment, I fear that he will be angry at me if I ruin his song, but taking into account the way he's been acting for the past few minutes, he could very well not even notice my intrusion.

My fingers find the ivory of the piano. I don't know how to play, yet it seems I find the space between his notes to add the smallest twinkling of my own, a rhythmic chime like the triangle or gong in the orchestra – the solid yet encompassing sound that fills the dead air between notes, that accents the monotony with foreign noises.

As he plays his song, my quick and amateurish notes weave their way through his more readily, darting sharply like swordfish. My heart begins to swell with a cloudy anticipation, an anxious fear. My chest is pounding – the millimetre separating us has closed, we sit shoulder pressed to shoulder, hands clamouring together, and I have no idea why it happens.

Our songs have merged into one. My simplistic counterpoint and his vacant minuet have fused to form a sort of concert for twenty fingers. Though the melody is repetitive and rhythmic, it seems to swell in intensity until it reaches a gentle wave-like climactic point.

My hand brushes over his and I divert my eyes towards him.

For the first time, he looks back.

The piano sounds sound blurred and cottony in my ears, as if my mind is suddenly distant and closed off. The room seems darker and the pumping of my own blood in my ears becomes the tiniest percussion behind the song.

We still look at each other intensely. Fearful. I purposefully allow my hand to brush against his again. The song begins to waiver. His eyes avert mine, but he remains oriented in my direction. We're close enough to breathe shared air.

The faint piano melody is no longer a duo of counterpoint, but one simple song, no longer a lonely one. Our fingers place less downward pressure, slowly loosen their bearing on the keys. The last notes still ring in our ears as we kiss.

The song echoes somewhere in my mind, as if the feeling of his lips and the sound of the music are linked phenomena, like the melting feeling and the flavour of chocolate. I don't question that this is truly happening - it is.

It's happening.

We finally pull apart, slowly, as if we're unweaving the song we created. I know that objectively the song we played was no work of art, but emotionally it was groundbreaking. He peels away from me and slides off the bench. He gives me a lingering look and slips out the door.

I breathe deeply, for the first time in a while. I venture to check the time. A few moments after midnight, August 18th.

I should go to sleep.

* * *

**Relatively short chapter this time, only about 2/3 as long as the previous one (though 6 was longest) My friends moved away, my boyfriend is growing up, writing about high-school-agers makes me nostalgic. I made a small self-reference in the first section, back in 2008 I made a series of TDI poops that got a lot of recognition on Youtube haha, but my account was shut down and they're gone now!**

**I can't help but think that the end scene is a little too spiritual and corny for the subject matter, but I think it's...pretty? Hopefully readers are pleased that that important moment has occurred at last, but trust me, just like the source show, a little smooch isn't going to spell the end of their teen drama struggles! **

**Thanks in advance for R&R :) **


	8. Antinovel

I stand in front of room 108 for what feels like an entire day, staring at the door. It's at least 12:30, and commotion continues to be heard off in the distance of the long-forgotten party. My mind is racing after what just happened.

Actually, in absolute honesty, 'racing' is not the right term. My mind isn't racing. My mind is stagnant and quiet. My mind has little to think of except a slow replay of the past half hour, with a few smaller mental display screens exhibiting scenes from earlier this evening.

All efforts at decision-making are held completely immobile, a complete system freeze inside my mind. No matter how often I mentally click control, alt, delete, my task manager always comes up with only one running program, and it's that video clip. That moment, and every associated sensation.

I tire of this computer analogy.

When I get brave, I knock on the door. He takes forever to answer. When he answers, a smile breaks through his foggy, tired face. When he smiles, I do too. When we smile, we get closer together, and wordlessly, we kiss and his mouth tastes like sour sleep and faint alcoholic aftertaste.

Alternatively, when I get brave and he opens the door, he says to me that he's sorry. He tells me, 'I've always liked you, a lot, more than I should.' And, like before, we embrace awkwardly and passionately, tangling together in a tired, standing heap in his doorway. Eventually, we head into his room and fall into a heavenly slumber, limbs wrapped around each other – and consensually, this time! And I can kiss his neck without protest.

It isn't hard to guess what portion of this narrative truly occurred.

I didn't get brave. I'm still standing silently in front of his door. No light appears from under it – he must be asleep. God knows what he's thinking, that is, if he's awake. If he's awake, he's probably doing what I do right now: replaying events and analyzing them. Replaying his many decisions, from the kiss, to the Gwen-talk, to every sip of vodka, to what shirt he decided to wear.

If he's asleep, he probably imagines similar things, but in a kind of metaphor. Maybe he speaks to a conglomerate monster that incorporates bits of me, and Gwen, and Trent, all into a freakish heathen, trying to teach him a lesson about self-awareness and to connect him to his deeper desires.

Or maybe he's dreaming about something simpler, like falling off a cliff as the world spins around.

Or in the likeliest case, as he's been in bed for twenty to thirty minutes at most, he's not yet entered the rapid-eye movement stage and is only beginning to experience delta-wave patterns associated with deep-stage sleeping, slipping into the inactive and dreamless darkness of profound slumber. He has at least a half-hour more before any regrets of today manifest themselves in a nocturnal haunting of his brain.

But I am awake, so any potential confusion I face lies squarely on me already. I do not knock on his door. From Heather's room I can hear the 'How it's Made' theme song play noisily. I crack a smile at that. I go to my room. I get into bed. I don't try to sleep.

I stare at the blank ceiling in my room, eyes getting heavy. I can still hear faint hooting coming from the basement, as it's a well-known fact the party isn't over until Owen eats himself into diabetic shock.

I contemplate. I re-iterate the evening. I re-imagine kissing Cody, outlining details to cement them in my mind by connecting to all five senses. My eyes were shut, so sight gets a blank. He had no particular smell himself, only the must of undisturbed room enveloped me. His lips were neither dry nor silky – kind of warm, with the sparse prickle of a teen who is at age of shaving, but rarely requires it. His saliva was nervous and foamy, with the faint acrid taste of straight alcohol – the only thing in his stomach at the time, I'd imagine. The piano filled my ears. I think all the senses are accounted for.

With my memories carefully filed, I begin to drift off to sleep.

In the instant before I slip under, I'm suddenly overcome by a bubbling excitement commencing in my heart. It rumbles with increasing strength, like a car alarm blaring with a more and more panicked scream. A disquieting ecstasy spills out from deep within, from my chest, down my spine, into every hair on my body, with a small electric tingle. Excitement. I got what I wanted. I just realize it now. I don't know what's coming next but tonight, as roundabout and complicated as it was, was a sort of accomplishment. Excitement is a feeling so foreign to me, and maybe that's why it took so long for me to feel it – my body needed to remember how.

When my veins finally loosen their clutch on my blood, I settle down and slip into an uneasy but overwhelmingly happy sleep.

* * *

I head downstairs with a mix of apprehension and passive joy coursing in me. The rational side of me continues to scream that I have no clue what I'm doing and may have ruined my closest friendship on this damn show, but the girl side of me is giddy. Besides, today is the last day. Even if I pounced on him, what would _really _be the repercussions? I pretend to not be searching for Cody as exit the house to stand near the pool area.

You would think after a night of partying that my fellow campers would be doing some major snoozing right now, but contrary to expectations, the majority of the cast is outside, playing Frisbee and eating marshmallows. The late night debauchery did not put the damper on day-time shenanigans.

Cody's not there, but Chris McLean is.

This sort of lump manifests itself in my throat. This lump is an instinct that tells me that Chris isn't here to deliver some simple goodbyes. My gut tells me that he's here to hook us in like the wriggling money-fish we are, to send us on another needless, convoluted adventure.

"What is he doing here?" I say to myself.

Harold passes by holding a bundle of flowers. "Who?" he asks, overhearing me.

"Chris." I point a finger in the direction of the small man. "Is he here to send us into yet another round of wrestling matches with rabid vermin? Because I feel like one show-and-tell session of Owen's beaver wounds is one session too many."

Harold tosses his flowers aside immediately begins to lecture me: "Beavers are actually not in the same family as rats, even though they are _rodents, _their similarities end in their order. Their bodies are plump and if you look at their orange teeth and bone structure they have less in common with rats…" His voice is raspy and droning. With a frown, I begin to back away, but the dweeb continues to follow me.

"Beavers are also semi-aquatic..." I tune him out and make a few suicidal gestures.

"You can borrow my journal if you'd like…as long as you don't, like, get food on it or anything…" Harold continues to drone.

"Um, no thanks, I'm good." I try to escape him. I turn and add: "Oh, and by the way, 'vermin' is not a taxonomical classification. It is wrong to call a beaver 'vermin', but vermin is actually a term to qualify any pest animals that are disease-carrying or a threat to crops."

Harold looks a tiny bit hurt.

"So…I guess that's that." I say as I walk away. I get closer to Chris and his crew in order to find out the reason for his being here.

He has a suitcase.

My gut might be right.

"Congratulations to our winner, Owen! Not sure why, but you beat everyone out, and your pockets will soon be stuffed with cheddar."

"Mmm…stuffed with _cheddar_?" Owen says longingly

"But you may be able to _change _all that. Because in this suitcase, I hold…One….MILLION….DOLLARS!"

Yep, this is a dream come true. I'd _love _to play another game of humiliate the teens, what else can happen today?

* * *

Piling back on the boat yet again, I suddenly remember the train of thought I'd had when I woke up this morning, a thought that was obscured by the immensity of new developments in this game. I take a deep breath when no one is looking, make sure my eyebrows are perfectly cocked into my usual expression of passive disdain, and take a seat next to Cody on the boat.

"It seems people are finally considering working together. Took them long enough." I say to break the ice, not really looking at him as we share a bench.

"Yeah!" he says with a grin. "I'm so pumped to have a second chance." His face is completely earnest, almost as if yesterday changed nothing, or maybe as if it never happened.

I stall for a moment, searching for something interesting to say – something interesting but acceptably normal.

"So, um, do you have a team?" I figure he'll say no, but with any request, it's more polite to phrase it as a question than as a demand.

"Yep, I've hooked up with the former winner! Along with DJ and Tyler. I think that's a pretty solid team. I mean, in terms of brute strength we're an Eva away from unstoppable." He briefly makes a muscle to emphasize his point. I'm honestly surprised that he's found people to work with other than me. I guess that leaves me on my own.

I search around the boat and notice that everyone is clustering around each other – everyone is finding a party to search for the money with. And I'm here alone. I might be a smart schemer, but I have little experience in this game, and if I want any hope of survival, I'll need to team up with _someone, _as much as I don't want to.

As I debark from the boat, I watch as Cody rushes over to Owen, Tyler and DJ. Although I am not very well acquainted with DJ or Tyler, Cody and Owen are probably my best friends on the island, so I suppose I could be a fifth ranger for them. Even split five ways, the money would amount to double the original prize per person. Or if I was really desperate, I could even pair with Heather – last night's little conversation left the slightest feeling of warmth and camaraderie between us, at least on my side. Or maybe she likes me less, because I've witnessed her in a moment of weakness.

After pondering my options for an instant, I begin to make my way towards Cody and Owen when I'm intercepted by a burly arm around my neck and shoulders.

"Listen string bean." Eva's gruff voice utters. I feel a bit threatened by her proximity, especially seeing as this may be the first time she ever addressed me. "I'm making a little team up, and I want your help. We've got muscle, we've got ambition, and all we need is smarts. You've got that, I take it?"

I open my mouth to speak, but I truly fear arguing with a She-Hulk. I furrow my brows to look courageous. "Alright. What's the plan?"

"Simple: we get the money."

I take a deep breath and follow her. "So if I'm the brains, and you're the brawn, who's the ambitious member?"

On cue, I hear a shriek come from a tree as Izzy catapults off of it and lands in a crouch before us. In a dark voice, she says: "Noah. Izzy. Eva. The team that is destined for victory."

Her voice perks up as she rises to her feet and follows Eva and me. "We should call ourselves team NEI. Get it, cause they're the first letters in our names! _An acronym! _Did you know 'Nei' is Norwegian for 'NO!'? I learned that because one time, I decided that I should learn how to say 'no' in 30 different languages just in case I get assaulted in a foreign country and I want them to go away. Maybe I should have learned to say 'help!' but I don't really trust _foreign _cops, anyway, so I don't know why I even bother, I know I can defend myself against Norwegian attackers!"

I bring my fist to my mouth and bite down on it lightly, facing the horror of what I just signed myself up for.

* * *

"…And that's why I got kicked out of school in _seventh _grade! Maybe later I'll tell you about my most recent expulsion which was in grade 10, it was really crazy because it was during seal hunting season and a lot of people show up in my town during seal hunting season! Hey, are we still supposed to be searching up trees?"

Izzy scurries up a tree once again. Eva and I hurry after her. There's some commotion on the beach…Courtney is running with the suitcase. Running away from Duncan, who is incapacitated on the ground. She has the _suitcase! _ My heart is suddenly in my throat. I nudge Eva and we glance at each other apprehensively.

We take off towards the arrogant latina, though I have difficulty keeping up with the athletic Eva. Izzy's insanity manages to accomplish something positive for me, for the first time since I've met her. The branch she suspends herself on high in a tree bows under her weight. It snaps, sending a shower of pine needles down on Courtney, followed by 130 pounds of wacky.

Izzy holds up the suitcase in disbelief. Recognizing her victory, she darts down the beach. Eva and I explode in excited giggles – somewhat unusual for both our characters – and follow her, I at a more leisurely pace than she.

I pass Duncan momentarily. Duncan is a dick, and I'm glad it's he we stole the suitcase from. I won't go so far as to say I blame him for the awkward evening I endured last night, but victory over him still feels sweet. I grin confidently as I pass him, lying on the sand.

"So, your girlfriend turned on you, eh? Bet you feel like a loser now. Like…less of a man!" hearing those words coming from the gayest kid on the island is sure to drive him up the wall, but in his current state, there's little he can do.

"I'm enough of a man to take your head off, geek!" he snarls as he grabs me by the ankle.

I scream. I run.

Not my proudest moment.

* * *

Sitting on the dock in antlers, goggles and a red nose, I feel like slamming my face into the nearest post until I'm knocked unconscious.

I could go into great detail about every single thing Eva, Izzy and I did wrong today, but instead I think I'll choose to summarize it briefly and resume moping.

Ahem: Justin used his sexiness to steal the case from us, first of all. Allow me to go on an aside and mention how truly and deeply I hate that tanned, superficial asshole. I don't even find him that attractive – maybe strangely _mesmerizing, _but objectively not that pretty. After Justin ran off, Izzy put us in costumes for some reason, we dumped fish on him, Courtney got a hot air balloon, Cody almost died after being tied to Owen, DJ and Tyler by a length of rope, Bridgette and Geoff were attacked by a moose, everyone fell off the dock into the lake, and a freshwater shark – whatever that is – ate the case of money.

Now as for the reason I sit on this dock: I did not fall into the water with the case, and in some strange form of loophole, that means I can't return for the next season, at least not as a participant. However, the very same fine print that forced me to stay within the confines of the Playa des Losers after my elimination also forces me to live inside a crappy hotel during the entirety of the filming run of the next season.

This is, even moreso than the loss of the money, is the reason I want to smash my face into the dock. The others who were eliminated include the clones, the control freak, Cody, She-Demon, and Tyler. And in case I wasn't clear, She-Demon is Eva, not Courtney, although I must admit I have an increased respect for Eva since she never murdered me at any point today.

I swing my feet over the edge of the dock where Owen is floating like a rubber raft, waves lapping against his buoyant form. I pull the orange shades off of my nose and rub my temples thoroughly. When my eyes peel open again, I look down at Owen.

"Hey big guy, how does your second victory feel?"

"Awesome!" he shoots his arms up, causing him to dip to the side, sucking up some water. He rights himself. "How does it feel to lose again?" He says this with a sincere sympathy.

"Thanks for bringing that up…Eh, familiar I guess."

"I'm real sorry you can't be in the next season. You didn't even get to have any fun this season! You went home so early you didn't get to experience any of the excitement!"

I smile. "It's alright, I'm pretty sure lounging at the Playa is closer to my idea of 'fun' anyway."

"You're such a funny dude, I'm gonna miss you!"

"Oh don't worry, if I'm going to be on the sidelines, I promise I'll make snide remarks wherever possible."

The sun is beginning to go down and most of the campers have dragged themselves out of the water and are lying on the shore letting their soaked clothes dry in the cooling evening air. I notice the travel boat is approaching the dock once more, for the _last _last time.

"Bro, you should peel yourself out of the drink, now. I think the boat is on its way."

Owen flounders for a second and notices the boat fast approaching. He rushes to the shore and waddles down the dock. The other campers stand up slowly and hobble to where I stand. We leave the dock of losers, finally – although most of us on the dock are not losers this time, not yet.

* * *

I hold my suitcase as I maneuver to the rear of the tour bus, preparing for the two-hour-drive to Toronto. To my utter surprise, the bus is upholstered, well-lit, clean….very unlike every vehicle that we've been exposed to during our stint on the island.

The seats are paired. Cody sits behind Gwen, plugging an earbud into his ear. I stall briefly in the aisle, glancing side to side. Most people have paired. Izzy sits alone across from Owen, also alone. But despite her good work during our competition this afternoon, I've not brought myself to not be terrified of Izzy – I mean, Kaleidoscope. As for Owen, I've come to admit he's a really great guy, and I enjoy his company in moderate quantities, but I feel like willingly subjecting myself to constant gaseous outbursts and the gelatinous overhang over my armrest is not a wise choice.

So Cody it is. I shove my bag on the rack and collapse into the seat beside him. He turns to me and yanks the headphone out of his ear.

"So what's up?" He says brightly.

"Ah, simply relishing in the forgotten feeling of failure."

"Hey, at least you're not alone." He shrugs.

"Nah, if it were up to me, decent individuals like you would be getting the second chance. If it were up to me…You, Owen, Tyler, Bridgette, Heather…hell, maybe Izzy. She's insane but she has drive. You'd deserve it. And me too, 'cause I can't stand being out of it early a second time."

"Yeah, that's true. You and Ezekiel and Eva, it's like you never even took part."

"If it were up to me…Justin, Duncan, Gwen, they'd be outta here. Oh shit, Gwen's in front of us."

He chuckles. "Don't worry, she's probably too busy nuzzling Trent to really overhear anything. She's not so bad, why would you want her kicked out?"

I jerk my shoulders in surrender. "I have no idea. Did you get the hand-out?"

He motions to his lap, where the hand-out outlining the rules of the next season are listed. Season 2 is titled 'Total Drama Action'. The title worries me – season one had enough action for my tastes, how could there possibly be more? The show starts on September 1st, exactly two weeks from today. My contract says that despite not being an active participant, I still need to be in attendance for filming. This pisses me off greatly, because it means I can't return to school in the fall – the show begins two days before school does.

"So, this is gonna suck right?"

"Well, we're unlikely to get mauled, at least."

"We're also unlikely to win money."

"Maybe there will be a twist at the end where we need to do a melee race for it?"

"Maybe."

I feel perplexed by Cody. Not a single twitch, not a single crack in his behavior indicates he even has knowledge of last night. Part of me wants to yell at him, 'Cody, we kissed.' And yet the fact he has no visible recollection of the event makes me almost believe it never happened at all, which at this point would be the preferable alternative over the complete lack of recognition of recent events.

He was briefly one of my best friends, and now, seeing him gives me a quick shiver of wanting to throw up. Yet he just sits there, staring blankly at the collar of my shirt, smiling dully like nothing's wrong. I almost feel like this is completely unfair, as if I need to hold some kind of secret.

The only alternative is that he _does _know it happened, and that he simply doesn't care. I can't help but wonder how someone can think kissing a friend of the same sex 'doesn't matter', but maybe he's just very confident in his ladykilling abilities. Maybe he thought I was drunk, too?

The bus groans to live and the lights dim – it's getting dark out, and the driver is under the assumption that people will want to sleep. In reality, most people are too worked up, in a bundle of excitement and frustration at the new series coming up. In addition, against all odds some of these kids have become as close as family, and would rather spend their last moments together for two weeks talking and winding down.

Eventually, Cody and I delve into a nerdy game of twenty questions.

"Are you an animal?"

He pauses and grunts. "Um, maybe."

"You can't do maybe, it's yes/no."

"Well I'm not sure if it counts as an animal."

"Okay, are you a Pokemon?"

"No."

"Are you from a video game?"

"Duh!"

"Ah, do you wear clothes?"

"Um, just shoes."

"Just shoes? Are you furry?"

"No."

"Can you fly?"

"No."

An idea suddenly enters my train of thought. "Are you the protagonist's steed?"

"Steed?"

"Like animal he rides on."

"Oh! Yes! Yes."

"Are you annoying as fuck?"

"What? I don't think so."

"Yes you are, you're Yoshi."

"You're right. You think Yoshi is annoying?"

"Have you ever heard that little green bastard talk?"

"I guess I see where you're coming from. Your turn?"

"Okay. A hard one. I got one."

"Hard. Ah, jeez, are you from a _book?_"

I smirk. "Yes."

"Crap. Are you from a _comic _book?"

"Ha, nice try. No, and not manga either."

"Are you Bilbo Baggins?"

"No, what? Is that the only book character you know? Ask more questions."

"Is it a book you need to read in high school?"

"Hah, doubtful."

It takes him 79 questions, I counted, but eventually he guesses Matthias of Redwall, but only because there used to be a cartoon series about him in the early 2000s that Cody vaguely recalls from his childhood.

"I'm tired of this game, you drove me too hard."

"Try one more."

He rolls his head against the headrest. "Okay." He looks around and his eyes briefly settle on somebody.

"Are you insane?"

"Yes."

"Are you Izzy?"

"Yes."

"That was quick."

He yawns deeply. "I need to catch a plane back to the ol' N.S. tomorrow at 8:34. I might die."

I snort. "I'm taking a train, so…"

His eyes begin to droop shut as his head rests limply against the headrest. "Nighty. Wake me when we get there."

As minutes pass, his head dips closer and closer to my shoulder. I glance around the interior of the bus for a second, and then shift to the side a bit to speed up the slow-motion collision between his head and my shoulder. My heart feels surprisingly tender as his freckled nose makes contact with my shirt.

Whether or not yesterday was a real thing, I feel myself becoming more of a sap because of him. Today was a series of one disappointment after another, yet even though I lost a million dollars and lost my chance at season 2, the disappointment of complete silence from him on the topic of our kiss weighs almost as heavily on my mind.

We arrive in Toronto around midnight. Many of us have flights or trains to catch within the next twelve hours, so we opt (or rather, we are voluntold) to sleep in the reclined seats of the bus. Cody barely stirs throughout the night. I'm not bold enough to bring an arm around him. The pressure of his head against my shoulder begins to weigh on me greatly, so as much as it pains me, I let it fall off as I turn to my side to sleep.

I'm woken up many times throughout the night by the sound of fellow campers being boisterous as they leave the bus to catch flights. Bridgette, who hails from British Columbia, is the first to go, at 3:50 AM, and of course, has to leave Geoff with an emotional and extensive parting speech.

Tyler comes from Newfoundland, so he's the next to depart, somewhere during the 4 AM period. After he leaves, several people file out of the bus. I give up on sleeping at this point.

Cody's plane leaves long after sunrise, so I consider it acceptable to accompany him to his gate as he waits. To my surprise, Gwen and Trent tag along too, making pleasant small talk with him as he heads to the waiting area. I'm beginning to think maybe those Men in Black guys with the mind-erasing device came to the party last night to erase _everything, _because any kind of character development achieved then seems to be rendered defunct today.

I'd love to say that when Cody leaves to board at quarter after eight, that I remind him of last night, admit my affections, and deliver a cinematic airport kiss. But I don't do that, I just tell him to 'not get mauled by any more bears.' And to 'watch out for goths.'

I don't think Gwen listened for the last part.

I did something dumb last night and I decide now that if he let it slide, so will I. Two weeks from today, he'll be back in Muskoka, with me, and we'll be bros again like nothing ever happened. And it might seem like I'm angsting, but _look _at me, do I seem like the angsty type?

* * *

**I originally made that line about Cody's team being filled with brute strength as a joke but then I realized it's actually true. Although Cody is meek and weighs like 120 lbs he also has an abnormal amount of physical strength, being able to carry Sierra, punch out Duncan, and hold on to DJ, Tyler AND OWEN as they dangle off a cliff. Cody is more than meets the eyes :O**

**Anyway I think this chapter is actuallyyy pretty boring but I needed the filler. Next chapter is TDA and it's likely the entirety of TDA will take place in the span of one or two chapters since Noah and Cody don't take part.**

**Then after that is where my little midquel kicks in (you can see it on my profile :P) and then after that, who knows, I prefer not to plan things 20000 words in advance!**


	9. First Book of Numbers

The room surrounding me is sterile and blank. The ceiling is creped with points of asbestos and the windows are lined with heavy beige curtains. The wall décor consists of generic prints of flowers in acrylic pointillism. The television is encased in a wooden box.

The environment at the Playa was summery and warm, the perfect-vacation contrast to the third-world living conditions on the island itself. The hotel room in which I will reside for at least the next month is more business trip than summer vacation. The comforter on the bed is floral and a bit crunchy, the sheets are heavy and cold. The beds at the playa were narrow and soggy, these ones are queen-sized and firm.

There couldn't be a greater contrast between my dwellings from season 1 and season 2. One thing, however, remains consistent: I am thoroughly unexcited.

It's in my nature to rarely get worked up over anything, be it in the form of excited squealing or angry diatribes, but at least with season one I had this sliver of hope that things would _eventually_ get interesting, that _eventually _I would make it to the top, possibly even win, and have some great stories and mad cash to bring back home. That could get me worked up.

But of course it's no mystery how season one turned out, and there's no debate that it was very different than what I expected, or rather, what I'd hoped for. The number of times I really got my heart racing can be counted on my fingers:

1. When my team won the first challenge (I danced.)

2. When we had to do like a two-k run at seven AM.

3. When Owen was moments away from crossing the finish line

4. When I kissed Cody

Seeing as number 2 was more of a biological response to athletic exertion and not a psychosomatic repercussion of duress or euphoria, I suppose my exciting moments can be contained within a trilogy.

September started yesterday. Nobody's been eliminated yet for some reason, but something tells me that today is the day.

I strongly question why the production team insisted that I (along with Tyler, Cody, the twins, Eva, and Courtney) come back to the set for the second season if they knew we'd have _literally nothing _to do the entire time. In a sliver of good fortune, the brief time spend home gave me a chance to go through my basement library and nab as many books as I could fit in a suitcase. In fact, I took an additional suitcase of just books, and took the train here to avoid spending the fees that an additional bag would require. That's how much these little paper distractions mean to me.

I couldn't really find that many novels that I hadn't read or felt like reading so my suitcase library also includes: an Uncle John's Bathroom Reader from 1997 (gotta love outdated statistics), a cookbook (If I'm not going to be merry, I may as well eat and shrink, right?), a few kids books I stole from a sibling's ancient stash (I kind of still love Magic School Bus), and the Bhagavad Gita (as a non-Hindu Indian I _should _make the effort to read it, but I know I probably won't). The entire suitcase is not unlike the collection of things I'd have crammed into a bindlestiff on a tentative childhood escape from home, minus the unopenable canned foods.

I pick out a random soft-covered selection from my tickle trunk and recline once again into the bed. At least there's a television in here. It's still morning, but I decide I don't really want to leave my room today, or any day. I wish I were at school.

* * *

"So I heard that Izzy got eliminated today" Cody says to me, digging his hand into a bag of barbecue chips.

"Mh mh" I mumble absently as I flick through the stations of his hotel room TV. In the four weeks or so since we left the Island and surrounding areas, all strange and anticipatory thoughts of Cody have cooled back into 'he's my cute friend' territory. I turn to him "What did you say, I wasn't really listening."

"Izzy got kicked off the show tonight. Third eliminated."

"Oh shit." I groan.

"What?"

"That means she's coming here, doesn't it? I swear to God if she's within three doors of my room I'm bargaining with Geoff to steal his. Which frankly won't be hard since he already essentially lives inside of Bridgette's."

"Inside of Bridgette's _what?_"

I roll my eyes. "Room. You tried too hard to make that dirty." I click to the TV guide station. "There's nothing good on."

"Go on the history channel!"

"I didn't figure you a Hitler buff."

"No man, Pawn Stars is on."

"What's Pawn Stars?"

His mouth forms an O upon hearing me say this.

"You don't know Pawn Stars? It's this show that starting airing this summer while we were at Camp, about like, four overweight guys in Nevada who own a pawn shop."

"Is this like, a Sitcom? They show sitcoms on History?"

"No it's a reality show!"

I grimace "You gotta be kidding me. A _reality _show."

"Yes and I really really like it and please switch to it Noah, please, it's already 10:50 and it's almost over!"

I roll my eyes once again. "Fine" The show is still on break when I change the channel.

"What's the matter with you, dude, you seem like even more of a huge bitch than usual."

"I'm not sure what you've been doing with _your _time, but last time I checked, I've been inside this hotel for, what, sixteen or seventeen days now? Living off room service and group grocery orders and having nothing to do but read or watch TV. We can't even go anywhere because we're in the middle of town and we don't want to be 'seen by the public'. I swear to God, I'm gonna snap. I'm so done with this show." I set down the remote control and rub my temples. "I would far prefer committing death-defying stunts in the name of entertainment than endure this degree of sensory and social deprivation. This level of boredom should be a challenge worth a hundred k itself."

He chuckles awkwardly. "Well at least you can kind of hang out with me sometimes. I mean I know you miss the hot tub and the wii."

"Yeah and the only other people around are two psycho girls, two crazy squealing girls, and…" I search for a good term. "Tyler."

I let my head slam back into the pillow. "I just wish we could go home, if we're not going to be doing anything. I'm going out of my way to be a real stick in the mud this season, just out of spite." I pull the other pillow from beside me and put it over my head, smothering myself lightly. "I'm just _soooo bored!_"

"We should do something cool tomorrow." He says quietly. I drag the pillow off my face and turn towards him.

"Like what?"

"I dunno. Stuff."

There really isn't much 'stuff' to do. After having spent more time in this hotel, I've taken inventory of what facilities are available to me. We spend most of our time in our rooms. There is no central kitchen for us to eat from unless we go to the hotel's restaurant, which, being a hotel restaurant, has roughly 8 entrées on the menu so it's obviously unwise to go there every day. There _is _in fact a pool and hot tub, smelling harshly of chlorine and occasionally containing a considerable collection of waterwing-toting children. Because we don't have a central place to eat, we don't come together as a group very often. Also due to our lack of cafeteria, most of our meals are ordered in from take-out shops and grocery orders. To my delight, there's a Thai place two buildings down with a great variety, but it annoys me how I need to wait forever for a delivery person when if I were to leave the hotel myself, I could get to the restaurant after literally 2 minutes of walking. They say we can't be in public during filming, at least not unsupervised, especially those of us who were on the show but got eliminated.

Otherwise there's little to do here. There's a conference room on the first floor that, however ornate it appears to be, serves us no purpose at the moment. The only other activity we have to occupy our time with is the pay-per-view, from which we can order anything for free. But it would be an understatement for me to say I have no interest in watching 'Straight Boy's First Dick Volume 4' on pay-per-view.

So sometimes I hang out with Cody, and then I sleep, and I read. And I avoid getting bedsores.

Oh yeah there's also a gym but I doubt I'll ever use that.

That Pawn Stars thing is over, and some random show about Aliens is playing now. The history channel officially has nothing to do with History. Cody, recognizing the absurdity of the situation, twists off of his bed and wriggles a hand to the remote at my side. I dig it out from under my thigh and hand it to him.

"Take it. I should leave now anyway." I get up and motion towards the door. A squeak escapes Cody.

"Are you sure you…sure you wanna leave? I mean I'm not kicking you out, you can stay as long as you like!"

"Uh, yeah, I'm gonna get ready for bed soon, anyway. Long day of strenuous mental exercise, as usual."

He hops off of the bed and approaches me, standing beside his bathroom and halfway to the door. "Oh, but, um it's going to be midnight soon!"

I shoot him a confused look.

"I wouldn't _mind _if you stayed a bit…a bit longer."

My heart suddenly drops a beat, and begins to pound hotly in my upper abdomen. "Don't be weird." I coax out of my suddenly drying throat.

He glances at the clock, which reads 11:16. "Well…suit yourself."

I let my eyes linger on him for a moment more. His expression is a bit unreadable. I open the door and slide out. "Night" I call back.

I travel a few doors down to my own room, slide the card through the door, wait a fraction of a second for the little green light, and enter.

I brush my teeth. I wash my face. I run a comb through my hair.

I take off my clothes.

I sit on my bed in my underwear. The lights are off but the lamp is on. I place my cell phone on the bed in front of my crossed legs.

I press a button: '11:57'

I sigh. I wait. When the screen times out and goes black, I click the button again.

'Tuesday 8 September 2009/11:58 PM'

I stare at the words. When the 58 becomes 59, I begin to press the button over and over to ensure that the screen stays lit up.

Tuesday, 8 September. I keep staring.

Sixty seconds later, the digital display switches from 11:59 PM to 12:00.

I keep my eyes on the screen, still. Wednesday, September Ninth, Two Thousand Nine.

Well Noah, you're officially seventeen now, I say to myself. How do you like it so far?

I've had better.

* * *

Waking up the morning of your birthday is always strange. I open my eyes. The faint sliver of light from under the dense hotel curtain creeps into my room, and like other days, I spend my first second of wakefulness remembering where I am. The next second I spend recognizing it's the ninth of September.

When it's your birthday, you go about your day normally for the most part, but there's always a little voice in your head that periodically reminds you that it's your birthday. The voice whispers to me, 'it's your birthday'. The voice is not nasally and flat like mine, but empathetic and Cody-like. I crack a tiny smile.

I open my eyes fully, greeted by the dull grey corners of my ever-sterile hotel room. I realize that what woke me was the sound of my phone buzzing. I press the centre button.

Andrew Crane – 8:18 AM: Just got to school & molly reminded me its your birthday td. Happy birthday bro, too bad you can't be here with us! Enjoy season two i guess

I slide the keyboard open. 'ugh don't remind me, I'd so rather be at school for my birthday. Prob just gonna hang out w/ that cody kid today. Thanks for the birthday wish tho, at least I am allowed to keep my phone on my person this time around.'

I swing my legs out of bed and stretch myself out. I usually prefer to shower at night, but I realize I've been wearing these underwear a bit longer than I probably should, so my first birthday order of business is to bathe.

I flick the light of the small, spotless washroom adjacent to my sleeping area. If there's a tiny benefit to being here over being at the playa, it's the luxury of unshared washrooms. The showerheads empty into bathtubs here whereas on the island the showers were narrow enclosures with limescale-clouded panes of glass.

I step into the clean porcelain shower and turn on the water, back shuddering at the sudden contrast of the hot droplets against my skin. As the water pools at my feet, I allow my thoughts to wander.

I know for certain that my usual sour attitude has done nothing but sour further during these hellish few weeks. My slightly post-dated temper has curdled into complete cynicism. As the summer weaned of July, I grew accustomed to having Cody around, and as the house grew fuller, I even began to accept the friendship of others like Owen. I kind of forgot how empty and mind-numbing the first weeks at the Playa were. The dark days.

I squeeze a blob of the ever-replenished hotel brand shampoo into my palm.

What's different now? I have Cody, still, but his presence seems more of a distraction than a reward. I feel as though we are all imprisoned in our little cells here. As much as I didn't enjoy Harold's sleep-talking, Owen's gas, and DJ's random night terrors, the cramped quarters at camp Wawanakwa were at least familial – never alone, for better or for worse.

Maybe since I grew up in such a full house, the idea of being _alone _all the time bothers me once it loses its novelty. As much as I love to escape into my bedroom with a book, as much as the child version of me would hide away wherever he could fit just to be away from the bustling cavalcade of children in his house, my desire for solitude was always borne from a need to _escape _crowding. If there's no one to escape from, the solitude is not a privilege, but a requirement.

Well, I'm not entirely alone. I have Cody. That was enough for a big chunk of the summer. And eventually the others will get here, one by one, and it will be like a big party again, and I'll be _dying _to spirit myself away to my room once more. With a book. With myself. Just myself.

Until then, I have Cody.

As much of him as I deserve.

I sigh as the foamy water cascades down my shoulders, slowly running clearer. I grab conditioner.

Of course I need to think of this, here in the shower. How cliché to have your deep internal monologues in the shower.

So last night Cody made my heart almost flutter like a bitch for the first time in a while. I'm not sure why he suddenly got weird like that, but if I remember correctly I already decided to give up on such false hopes a while ago.

He stood close to me and didn't want me to leave his room. Does that mean something?

To be fair he also kissed me almost a month ago and we never brought that up again, and I still have my doubts that he was drunk enough to forget anything, let alone something so dramatic.

Sometimes I believe Cody is a seven-year-old who has no conscious recognition of the external world, who doesn't have an internal monologue of his own, and simply acts without narration, without question. I like to believe he's too kind to troll me, or even too dim to know enough about my feelings to be _able_ to troll me.

I like to believe that he'll always be the way he is, too simple to be cryptic yet cryptic all the same. I like to believe I can feel like I love him without acting like I do.

And _sometimes, _I believe my so-called false hopes about his intentions are actually false fears. For as cynical as I am, I've grown to love his presence, exactly as is, with all those tiny moments of 'maybe', blanketed in the far more numerous moments of 'probably not'. And I don't want that to change. I know what it feels like to kiss him, and I will never forget. We managed to survive, completely intact, from that incident, and I'm rather unwilling to pull such a stunt again. That's enough.

I could mentally check off all the times in literature where the power of unrequited love is even stronger than loved returned, but as I said, that's enough.

I'm not going to go down that road, I give up. And not 'give up', in the defeated, surrendering way, but in the sense that, as I did during the summer when I 'allowed myself' to fall for him, I will simply 'allow' this entire Total Drama Action fiasco to slough off of me without impact.

I am a boy coated in Teflon. Total Drama Action is the greasiest, yolkiest eggs ever laid. Can't stick to me.

One egg for 'I love Cody', one egg for 'God I'm bored', one egg for 'I can't win money'.

Crack these metaphorical eggs onto my surface, fry them sunny-side up or leave them on the heat til they denature and brown to a crisp.

And I'll just stay there, being a pan.

Oh my God, I think I read too much. That was a ridiculous analogy.

I think I spent enough time in the shower. I turn off the water and yank a (very white) hotel towel down from the shower curtain bar. Quick pat-down, wrap up my hair like a gay little queen, fresh underwear, check phone again.

Molly MacMullin – 8:59 AM: HAPPPYYYYYYYY BIRRRTHDDDAAAAAAAYYYYYYY !

I snicker.

Mom – 9:02 AM: Don't know if you're up but I'm going to be late for work. Happy birthday to my BIG little boy! We miss you XOXO. My youngest is a year away from adult, I feel sooo old

And my smile widens. If there's someone who can scrape down my armour of icy sarcasm, it's my parents. They're essentially sweethearts.

My initially bitter and pessimistic expectations for my seventeenth birthday soften somewhat. I blow-dry my hair, combing it into my signature style which is a classic combo of 'kinda gay' and 'pretty nerdy' but comes together in a way which I can describe as 'mostly satisfactory'.

With my hair mostly dry, I open the bathroom door to be greeted by two things: a gust of unpleasantly frigid air, and a sheet of paper on the floor near the door. I didn't look at it before I entered the washroom, yet somehow I feel it was there before I ever stepped into the shower.

It's face down. I bend over to pick it up.

It's a single sheet of hotel stationary. Scrawled in blue ink with the classic slanted-and-smeared style evident of a lefty, it says:

'Noon today, lobby, near that weird jar of coffee beans that's there for no reason'

And the birthday bitters become another step less bitter.

* * *

The reflective bronze doors of the elevator slide open with a ding and I step into the tiled hallways of the hotel lobby. I round the corner, coming to the little awkwardly-placed table, covered by various pamphlets advertising local attractions and, of course, the mysterious vase of coffee beans in which a single false flower rests.

I curiously grab a couple of coffee beans from the vase and squeeze them in my hands, attempting to extract the fragrance into the oil of my hand.

"Noah."

I turn suddenly to see Cody and shove the coffee beans into my pocket.

"Hey." I say weakly. He exudes excitement through an ear-to-ear grin. "Why are you so happy?"

"Because we're going to have _fun _today."

"Not if Chris and his goons have anything to say about it." I say, exasperated.

He grabs my wrist and brings his face somewhat close to mine. I hate to admit I flush.

"Some staff members of the show have their eyes on the lobby at all times, of course." He says. I give a puzzled look. He gets a little closer, coming as close to whispering in my ear as he can without it looking suspicious to an outsider. "Every day from 11:30 to 12:30, a guy comes in to check the pH level of the pool. He comes in through the small side door on the pool level. It opens up to a sort of gravel pit, there's a shack, and then a little staircase that leads into an alley."

I don't understand his plan fully, but I see enough to feel nervous. "We're gonna make a run for it!?" I whisper anxiously.

"Just for a few hours, then we'll be back. I mean what's Chris gonna do about it, kick us out of the competition?"

I laugh because it's the closest Cody's ever come to successful sarcasm, even if the result wasn't _quite _sarcasm. He keeps a grip on my arm.

"Come on!"

We shuffle back to the elevators, quite silently. He presses floor 1.

"No one will notice?" I say, just to be certain.

"Inside sources tell me that today's an elimination day on set. They've got bigger fish to fry than two fugitives, I think." He turns to me to give a gap-toothed smile.

When we reach the next floor, we creep through the hallway discretely. This operation requires the highest level of espionage to be pulled off properly. We slowly peer around the corner, through the glass door that leads to the pool.

The place is deserted.

We scramble into the pool room, over the tiled pool deck, to the other edge where the service door is left unlocked. The serviceman's toolbox is on the edge of the pool, but he is nowhere to be found.

"I feel bad about wearing outdoor footwear on the pool deck." Cody whispers.

"Cody, we're essentially breaking house arrest here."

After one more quick visual sweep of the area, we slip out the door, locate the staircase, and rush into the narrow alleyway between the two sections of building. One last look behind up, and we run onto the back street.

"We made it! I haven't figured out how to get back in again, but we made it!"

"So where are we going, anyway?" I ask him.

"I dunno. What _is _there to do in Muskoka?"

"We should have grabbed the pamphlets off the literally coffee table." I groan. "And by the way, wherever we go, we have to avoid drawing attention to ourselves. Like please, no eye contact with strangers, especially those in the 10-18 demographic…or whatever demographic our show was directed at."

"I catch you."

"So once again, what _is _there to do in Muskoka?"

"I dunno. Fishing."

"Please, just execute me instead."

The voice in my head that says 'it's your birthday' never stays quiet for long, yet it never causes me to outwardly mention the date's significance. The voice begins to utter a second part to the phrase: 'It's your birthday – and you're spending it with _him_."

* * *

The downtown area of this medium-sized Muskoka town is more of one long commercial street, aptly named Commercial Street. Along this street lie a few staple shops, like at least two Tim Horton's. A few clothing shops, a Chinese food place, a Shopper's Drug Mart, and some old department stores that are probably leftovers from the 1930s, with tall, wooden storefronts.

Cody and I visit a thrift shop nestled in a tiny nook between an auto parts store and the second Tim Horton's. It isn't the kind of thrift store where you find the kind of vintage gems hipsters go nuts over, but rather, the kind of place overweight people leave their old clothes when they finally drop the pounds – where half the inventory has been forgotten and untouched by their owners since Cody and I were toddlers, finally hauled into the light just to get stuffed into another bin.

There are books in there, but I don't have the space for any more books. Besides, these books are rigid from water damage, and mildew-specked. And among them are a few old dieting books, which furthers my explanatory hypothesis as to why most of the clothes here are at least size 14.

The only items in good quality are baby accessories, which get used for a few months before they're outgrown, and pass through many small hands before they wear out.

Cody shuffles through a small section of old video games, but most are CD-ROMs inside crushed cardboard packaging, along with two or three educational Arthur the Aardvark games which probably can't even run on anything more recent than Windows 2000.

We high-tail it out of there without making a purchase. We're low on cash anyway, so accustomed to getting our food mostly for free.

Cody nudges my arm. Across the street, there is a cinema – a small one. Empire 4 or 5 or something. I usually only see Empire Studios 8 – 8 projection rooms. The cinema seems almost pocket-sized, jammed beside a Pizza Pizza. It's strangely quaint.

I take note of why Cody nudged me. On the marquee, the letters spell out: 'Inglorious Basterds – 3:40, 6:10, 9:20'

"That seems like a film you would like." He tells me.

I try not to get excited. "Of course, I can't say I enjoy mindless violence and movies filled with shooting…" I turn to look at him. "But….I suppose I could make some concessions." I add sarcastically.

The popcorn costs its weight in kobe beef, but it's worth it.

* * *

At a little café-like shop at the end of the main street, likely the only such shop that isn't Tim Hortons, Cody and I sit face to face at a rickety patio table. It had been a bit cloudy earlier today, but now, at six-thirty or so, the sun is washing warm, red light across the road.

"I hated the part where Brad Pitt put his finger in the girl's bullet wound. I almost wanted to throw up." Cody says, as he looks down uncomfortably at his chicken on rye.

"In a movie where dozens get scalped and a hundred get shot, you're grossed out by the finger thing?"

"I dunno! It just made me really queasy."

I pick a sprout from my sandwich and toss it in my mouth. "It was everything I'd hoped it would be." I chuckle, before taking a swig of my coffee. I take the cup in both hands and form a cheesy smile.

"I actually had…" I lower my voice, lest someone hear me being positive for a change. "I had a good time today. We should sneak out more often."

He offers a gap-toothed smile, as if my entertainment was his entire goal today. "I'm glad! I don't know if I should let the others know about the little window of escape. If too many people use it too often, it will get obvious."

He scratches his scalp and glances behind his head. "I think I'm gonna go pee." He says abruptly.

I nod imperceptibly and watch him get up and enter the restaurant. Today was like the perfect first date that wasn't. As if the time I spent at home, and worse, in the hotel, was lifted off of me like a fog. Just me and him strolling along the streets of this marginal and nameless town.

I wish it could be like this for a long time. I wish I could take him back to my hometown and have him meet all my friends at school. They'd pick on him, I'm sure, but he'd find his niche. One day, they'd be discussing a topic he knows a lot about. He'd go on a long tirade and they'd be so impressed by his knowledge. They'd say, 'man Noah, he's kind of awkward, but you chose a good one, after all." And we'd go to prom together, even though he's in eleventh grade, which would be awkward because since I'm in Student Council and Honour Society I'd probably be pretty close to the front of the line when we red-carpet. And maybe he can meet my family too when I get the balls to tell them about me.

I cancel my reverie as Cody comes back through the glass doors, taking his place across from me.

"I wonder how we'll slip back in." he says absently.

"We can scale the walls. Well, you can. Just toss me a harness and pull me up." I dip a finger in the dropped vinegar on my plate.

"If I can stop Tyler, DJ _and Owen _from careening off a cliff then I'm sure I can pull, what, 135 pounds of you up the side of a building."

"Um, I'm 131 pounds! Offended much." I jab.

He snickers. "We had a good day."

"What?" I say, as his words were a bit off-topic. A shadow falls over our table, and out of the blue a plate with a miniature cake is set in front of me.

"It's the least I can do."

The surprise-cake is enough to send a jolt of happiness that gets caught in my throat.

"I like chocolate myself." He says. "But you said once, that," He stumbles over words. "That you like red velvet, and I assumed you meant cake unless you meant the fabric but like, that's kind of random to tell someone what your favorite fabric is, it's not like I'll make you pants for your…"

I stare at him throughout his diatribe with a hint of admiration.

"I mean. Eh. Happy Birthday." He pulls a matchbook out of his pocket. "I don't have candles. I just..just blow on the match, I guess."

The first match he strikes is immediately extinguished by the wind.

"I didn't tell you today was my birthday." I say.

"Yeah you did, remember how…" he tosses the burnt-out match and selects a new one. "Remember how it was Lindsay's birthday, the day after the crew came for the 'how are the losers doing episode' I think. Remember? And everyone had cake and stuff for her birthday, and _you _said something like, I feel bad for folks with summer birthdays 'cause their friends from school always forget about 'em."

Distracted by his speaking, he burns his finger on the second match. "Yeouch! Anyway. You said your sister or someone had a birthday in July and it always sucked for her because her friends would always be doing stuff and not able to have a party that day. And then _I _said that having a birthday on April Fools is way worse, cause it is."

I nod. "It is."

"And then you said that you don't mind having your birthday at the start of the school year, even if it makes you younger than most of your classmates. Or something like that. I don't remember how it went, I just remember that you said September 9th was your birthday. And I made an effort to not forget that because…" he finally successfully lights the third match, shoving it into the centre of the cake and shielding it with his hand.

"Because…it really sucks to be forgotten on your birthday." He looks at me with the most sincere look in his eyes. The melting of my heart makes up for our lack of candlewax. Another horrid metaphor.

"Now blow this out because I can't just shield it forever."

I smile silently, take a deep breath, and blow.

"Happy birthday, dear Noah, happy birthday to you." He whispers melodically. "I thought you might get pissed if I sang out loud."

"You know me well."

"What did you wish for?" He says, as he readjusts himself back in his seat.

"I can't tell you that." I say coyly.

* * *

I'd like to recount how the evening went after we managed to weasel our ways back into the hotel, but I feel as though despite my extensive vocabulary I'd be hard-pressed to find words to adequately explain the bizarre mix of awkwardness yet calm affection.

It was late in the evening when Cody decided to finally vacate my bedroom, and, in a manner identical to last night, we insisted on performing our pointless tango in which we can't decide whether we actually want to leave the room or not. He had his fingers on the lock when we stood in the doorway. He turned to me; his lips twitched. The tiniest grumble came from in his throat, but the sound was far from words.

We stood so close that our noses nearly touched, or at least my large proboscis invaded his personal bubble to some degree. And as is expected of me, I staunchly refused to go for the kill in any way, shape, or form, unwilling to destroy the false promise of a birthday wish so quickly. Although I can't help but feel as though my body softened a little towards him, as if the side facing him was being melted into malleable paraffin while my back-side remained stiff.

Before I had the chance to do anything stupid such as closing my eyes, he broke the short and dense silence: "Oh, by the way…"

He pulled out a card, plain folded paper, with crude smiley faces wearing pointed party hats. The H in 'happy' was coloured in a different marker than the other letters, likely because the first ran out of ink as evidenced by the faint beginnings of an 'a'.

I was happy when he gave it to me. I was happy all day. I felt as though I didn't need anything else for this to be a good birthday. So after another brief instant of us awkwardly staring at each other, he stuttered 'happy birthday!' and backed out the door. I said see you tomorrow.

Then I laid on my bed and saw that being a fool, I didn't take my phone with me on my excursions today. Three missed calls, seven people texted me. The calls are from some of the sibs.

And that's where I am now, on this shitty bed as the hours fade away on my seventeenth birthday. Cody's card is resting on my stomach and I'm staring at the ceiling. I really freaking love Cody, just thought I'd mention that. He went out of his way to make my birthday as nice as it could be given the circumstances, and he succeeded. I unfold the card again. It doesn't say anything special. It doesn't contain an encrypted love note. But I still stare at it intently, as if the note is written in disappearing ink and I might just notice it if I stare long enough.

And then I realize I kind of don't care because even without the love note, this birthday was great.

My phone begins to vibrate: 'Incoming Call – Michael Khosla'

My brother. So it begins.

* * *

**Took me long enough, ugh. I am a bit squished here with these chapters because Noah doesn't do anything in Action. Birthdays are so special to me, no one wants to have a shitty birthday. And tomorrow, (July 17) is my fanon birthday for Geoff so it's an appropriate time to submit this chapter I guess. **


	10. Second Book of Numbers

Bright lights. Sweltering. The smell of Trent's cologne.

How many times do I need to open with a description of a place I don't want to be?

We finally discovered today what our role would be as non-participating contestants. Our role is literally to sit on a couch and listen to Bridgette and Geoff talk.

To be fair, I asked for this. I begged for this. And even though the spotlights and the instant replays are all very hard on the head, at least it's something to do outside my hotel room. At least I get my mug on TV again.

I sat next to Cody and didn't say a word. I made a promise to myself to be a bigger stick in the mud than I've ever been before, and since I've been shoved deep into that proverbial mud since the day I learned to talk, I have to bury myself awfully deep. Proverbially.

I can't help but crack a smile when Cody pulls out Gwen's bra – it was either smile or scowl. This episode focuses a lot on Trent. He was almost the Gwen to my Cody - before I discovered Cody. But I learned to keep my head and to give it up. So even if I can smell his sweat and cologne from my seat behind him, I train myself to ignore it. Because I remind myself he's a moron, and that Cody's here now.

After the buzzer sounds to end the show, we hop down off the bleachers and Cody directs me to an area off to the side.

"Do we really _need _to talk to him?" I lament.

"Hey, he's a cool guy. And if anyone can sympathize with someone for getting rejected by Gwen, it's me."

"Are you forgetting about your little performance on the last night at the Playa?"

"I'm trying to!"

He drags me by the shirt sleeve over to Trent, who's fastening his guitar into its case.

"Hi Trent" Cody says meekly.

Trent rises to his feet and slings his guitar over his shoulders. "Hey man."

His voice is strangely thin. He cracks the tiniest smile at me and nods. "Noah." He states.

"How are you holding up?" Cody says, a bit awkwardly, but completely incomparable to some of his previous awkward Trent moments.

"I've had better times I guess." He says with a shrug. His green eyes smolder like dying-out coals, narrow and dark at the corners.

"I know how you feel." Cody raises a hand slightly, but recoils, deciding against touching Trent. "Hey so, let me warn you, it's very boring at this hotel. A lot worse than the playa. So if you'd like to, maybe, chill sometime…I'm always open. " he pauses and resumes in a slightly more frantic pace: "And even if the offer doesn't sound so great now, trust me, after a week here, you'd hang out with Sadie."

Trent crosses his arms loosely across his chest. "That so. So what _do _you do?"

"Me and Noah just do…"

"Cody and Noah stuff I guess." I interrupt. On the surface, I'd actually enjoy the variety of having Trent stay with us from time to time, but somewhere in the pit of my stomach, I feel as though only more shitstorm could come from it. Or perhaps my history of wet dreams and drunken errors is what causes me to associate Trent with embarrassment.

The 'Aftermath' studio is nearly an hour away from the hotel – closer to the main shooting area for the competition than to the loser's rest spot. We take a tour bus with darkened windows back to the hotel because, once again, the producers don't want outsiders to see us coming and going. In some crazy break with routine, Cody doesn't sit beside me on the bus. Trent plops down near me instead.

His shoulders are still broad and angular, but with a more acute slope to them. There's something about his entire body language that is transformed. I feel a burn that runs through my throat, through my skin, through my freaking scalp, when I realize this new posturing makes him more attractive to me. The slight weakness is vaguely Cody-esque, creating an amalgamation that stirs up dead desires.

I hate the smell of him. Why did he sit beside me? I don't even have anything good to say to him.

"So what's been new and exciting for you, bro?" he says nonchalantly.

"Nothing ever. I'd rather move to the Tundra than put up with this long-term."

He nods. "It must be pretty bad then. I mean, if you want to go to the tundra instead."

I sigh. "Well it was my birthday this week. That was actually not a bad day, thank God."

He seems a little more alert. "What day was your birthday?"

I arch an eyebrow. "Wednesday."

"Like…September…"

"Ninth." I finish his phrase for him.

After a moment of silence, I see a flicker – a gleam in his eyes, as if he suddenly woke up. "September 9th. That's a great birthday."

"I guess it's better than no birthday." I shudder lightly. I haven't been close to Trent or given a damn about being close to Trent in a while. For the most part, I've been genuinely disinterested in Trent in the same manner I am disinterested in many things. Yet something about him now is unsettling.

"You know, this year your birthday was even more special. Ninth of ninth of ninth."

He doesn't elaborate but I understand. This Trent feels different than the old Trent, and I'm not sure if this is good or bad.

* * *

Just as Cody hoped, Trent begins to hang out with relative frequency. On many occasions we find ourselves arranged on the floor; Trent with his guitar and Cody with his songs, and me pretending to ignore their maddening sing alongs. I never found Trent's guitar playing, or any guitar-playing, particularly attractive. I don't see why girls go nuts over a guy with an acoustic.

"I had a brother who picked up guitar for awhile." I say. "It was a _wonderful _ four months. But I guess growing up in a big family where at least, like four of us were in band, I should be used to the noise."

Trent twists a tuning peg on the head of his guitar. "How many siblings do you have, anyway? There's no way all these stories happened to the same person."

"I'm the youngest of nine."

If words could be called back, I'd do it now. His eyes lock onto mine.

"Youngest of nine." He repeats quietly.

I swallow harshly and spit out a different comment: "Um, so do you guys like…er…Green Day?"

Trent puts the strap of his guitar around his back again. "Yeah, they released their ninth album this May. It's…it's okay." His glance moves again to the floor.

I don't understand him anymore – maybe it's because until now there was little to understand. He seems less simplistic, more cryptic. And of course, a lot less cool. I try not to look at him too closely. I cross my legs and adjust my posture. Trent begins to strum a tune and Cody, once again, starts to sing.

"You might find out that your self-doubt means nothing was ever the-re, you can't go forcing somethin' if it's just not right…"

Cody's voice is very pleasant to the ears, nicer than Trent's I'd venture. It's young and untrained but pleasant. I wish we'd had a challenge of karaoke or something, or that he'd done his singing in the talent show portion of season one. The public should hear his gift. Of course, I'd only wish this if said content occurred _after _my departure from the show.

They want to sing another

"No, not that song." Trent begins "It reminds me too much of…"

"Gwen. Same."

"No more Green Day."

And I realize at this moment I'm stuck spending my time with two attractive boys who both have huge Gwen issues.

Alone with Trent. Oh, pourquoi?

Cody has been the eternal go-between for me and Trent. In fact, I'm not sure if I've ever talked to Trent in a context that had nothing to do with Cody. Even my Trent _dreams _had weird Cody undertones.

And if you've ever had a sexy dream about someone, you realize very quickly how awkward it is to see them in three dimensions. Anything I feel for Cody, I developed when fully awake. And anything for Trent, I developed in a deep sleep; feelings which make no sense when they surface under morning light.

So I'm sitting a bit too close to him on the carpeted floor while Cody goes to buy some soda from the bottom-floor snack shop. I don't want any part of me to touch him, but I don't want to make an obvious recoil. I want to divorce myself from those early attractions but I find trying to avoid those old thoughts only make them more awkward. He has a notepad in his lap. I don't dare to look down at the lined paper.

But the silence we share is uncomfortable and heavy, so when it comes to the choice of spying on his scribblings or trying to engage in conversation, I choose the former. I turn an eyeball to his lap – probably just sappy, pretentious song lyrics or something.

His writing is thick and stressed, in pencil. In front of his folded legs are eight other pencils in descending order of size. I'm beginning to wonder if he's even the same person as he once was. My eyes turn back to the text – it just seems like letters, circles and boxes. Some letters in certain scratchy, mangled words, are connected together by lines, some bold, some faint.

My curiosity gets the better of me. "Um…Buddy? What are you writing?"

Silence.

"Guitar tabs or something?"

"Noah, what's your middle name?"

I blink a couple times, because that was in no way, shape, or form an answer to my question.

"Er."

He looks back at me, pencil pointing vaguely in my direction and lips pursed.

"Lucas." I say finally.

"Noah Lucas."

He stares at his paper for a few seconds. "That's so cool."

"How?"

And he still doesn't speak. He turns back to me and observes me intently. I almost feel like prey being circled by a carnivorous bird. Instincts tell me to lie still and he'll fly away, but I take the risk of engaging him.

"Um, seriously, are you okay? You've been acting _super _weird since you got eliminated from Action. "

"It's just…Gwen." He says briefly, but I feel like that's only half the story.

"Yeah, I can tell based on yours and Cody's daily Gwen laments. But there's gotta be more than that."

He ignores me and begins to scribble in his notepad again. My desire to see Cody return increases on a linear axis with every second Trent spends scribbling and/or staring at me. This is not like my dreams at all. I peer into the book again, but at that very moment he flips to a new page.

"Listen to me, dude. Does it have something to do with your wacky number nine…stuff? I saw your clips on the aftermath. What is it with you and nine?"

He closes the notebook. "It's more than just Gwen, okay? It's just my lucky number! And not because of her, either."

"I know, I heard your story about the trains and whatever."

"Yeah but when it was pointed out to me that Gwen had 4 letters and Trent has 5 it made me realize there are more coincidences. It's amazing! It's like this number has followed me throughout my life!" He scoots slightly closer to me, and the look of excitement on his face is frankly a bit distressing.

"Well my first name has five letters. And my last has eight. Eight and five aren't nine, they don't add up to nine, either. And Gwen's first name has four letters. Her last has nine. So there's a nine. But her birthday is the eleventh day of the twelfth month. Nothing to do with nine. And if you add the year, 1992 – that makes one plus two plus one plus one plus one plus nine plus nine plus two. That's…twenty six. But on the other hand, she was born at nine nineteen in the evening. So that's something, too!"

"No, it really isn't."

"She also likes Slipknot, a band famous for their obsession with the number nine. Now I know it isn't much, so I started to look elsewhere. Who else has nines? I didn't talk to that many people. Only some of my closer friends. Cody's birthday is the first of the fourth of ninety-three. So add those digits up and you get 27. And if you go by my numerology books, you can't have double-digit numbers, you have to keep adding til you get a number under ten. So two and seven are nine! That's how I knew he could be my friend. And of course, four letters Cody and five letters Trent makes for nine. I wanted to get the list off Chris that has all the contestants' birthdays on it, but he wouldn't let me have it. So I had to investigate by myself. It's actually very fascinating."

I'm at the point where I feel legitimately creeped out by Trent. Not that my skin is crawling, but that there's something so peculiar about his behavior and so unlike what he used to be. I almost want to feel bad for him. And yet the neurosis that brought him to finding these coincidences it at least a bit fascinating. I don't wish to hear any more. But despite that, I sit here, and I keep listening, and Cody doesn't come in.

"What about your own…nines?" I say, a bit anxiously.

"My birthday, February Sixteenth. Two plus one plus six. Perfect."

He resumes:

"Now you. You're the most interesting case. You are the youngest of nine children. Your birthday is the ninth day of the ninth month. Your first name plus middle name equals nine letters. And your last name is six, so that doesn't really mean anything. But altogether, lots of nines."

He places a quasi-unwelcome palm on my leg. "You're the best case I've seen so far."

Deep breath.

Stomach acid sloshes inside me.

Cody comes in the room.

"Trent, I got Pepsi in the four hundred ninety-one millilitre bottles. There's no such thing as 900 millilitre bottles. Noah, Dr. Pepper. And orange for me. So what are we talking about?"

When he sits down, I get close to him. In fact, I'd rather curl up in Cody's lap than listen to Trent's nine dialogues for another instant.

* * *

The dynamic between the three of us has grown tense and taut, at least from my perspective. Cody and Trent seem to be friendly with each other, although they occasionally return to their sopping commentaries on their unrequited love of Gwen. I try to ignore this, but in the end remain silent.

I know that Cody has more in common with me than with Trent because in terms of social hierarchy, Trent is cool minus smart, I'm smart plus somewhat cool, and Cody is smart minus cool. So naturally, I should be the go-between, but instead I feel like a buoy bobbing between two speeding transport barges.

Gwen this, Gwen that. Gwen Blasczyk is a blue-haired goddess.

As if I need to bring it up again, my tension may have a little something to do with my compounded desires for both of these lads, although now I prefer to keep Trent at arm's length to avoid learning any more peculiar statistics on the number nine. And now I even prefer to keep Cody at arm's length because our former intimate and at times mildly fluffy relationship has absolutely cooled into casual companionship. I miss the days of us as a duo.

And now I feel like a moron because I'm in the wonderful situation where I'm stuck hanging out with the two hottest guys on this show and I still am having a horrible time of it.

They're still in my room even though it's nearing one in the morning. We had another episode of Aftermath today, an occasion which never fails to charge Trent and Cody enough to keep them up (and in my room, and talking loudly) for all hours of the night.

Gwen Blasczyk is a blue-haired demon.

It's only been a week since Trent came to the hotel and I find myself reassured that once the house begins to fill up, he'll find someone else to hang out with and to play guitar with, though maybe we can still be friends when it suits me.

Trent is talking. He's trying to remember a name. He taps his pencil nine times, stops, and taps the rhythm again. The quick succession of tapping is lulling me. My head is on my pillow. I drift.

This time, when I dream, I see Gwen instead. She is taller than usual, a bit warped.

She tells me 'I keep winning.'

And I want to get mad at her because she's right, all the cute guys go for her. She rolls her eyes – 'But it's always freaks. So do you want to go to the shore or what?'

No idea what she's talking about. 'You can have Trent if you want, I like Bridgette now.'

I try to tell her that Bridgette is only interested in Geoff but the sounds in my throat sound so unlike my voice.

The short rift from 'Wake Me Up When September Ends' starts to bleed into my dream, and when I open my eyes and ears to the physical world, it's still present.

"Jesus." I mumble. "Can you cut the tunes, boys?" I say, groggily.

"Oh, if you wanna go to sleep we can leave." Trent says.

"You should have asked." Adds Cody.

"Yeah. Yeah you're right." I rub my eyes. "Please, let me go to bed." I pull myself up off the rough, carpeted floor. Trent offers me a hand, which I gingerly seize and let go of quickly as soon as I'm on my feet.

I follow the duo to the door. "So tired. Wake me up when September ends, okay?" I say nonchalantly. I must be tired to make such a dumb pun.

"Well, it's the twentieth. Um, well the twenty-first now, I guess. So…" Cody muses.

"Good night." I cut him off. He grins briefly and leaves the room.

Trent stands momentarily at the door, facing me. I stare at him, fatigued and disinterested, but he remains frozen with a knowing yet goofy smile. I raise an eyebrow sharply, and without another word, he follows Cody out of my doorway. I shut the door.

I crash into my bed with the lamp still on. Now that Gwen has been eliminated, Trent is doing everything in his power to avoid her at this hotel, and that means spending an increasing amount of time with me and Cody. I never expected this unorthodox arrangement.

Another thing I never expected was for Trent to annoy me so much. I used to think he was just excruciatingly hot and now he seems like more of a pest that wedges himself between me and Cody.A handsome pest, but still a pest. In fact, I don't think I've been alone with Cody for more than forty-five minutes since Trent arrived. And now as much as I wanted more company and something to do when it was just me and Cody, I've begun to long for those days to come back.

So I must allow this fiasco to become a cautionary tale: be careful what you wish for. Because if you're a genuine malcontent like Noah (Lucas) Khosla, you'll definitely find something to bitch about.

* * *

I realize quickly that the price I have to pay to spend alone time with Cody is to spend alone time with Trent in exchange.

It's October eleventh (seriously, the _eleventh_) and I've decided enough is enough. I'm going to tell Trent to fuck off today, but in kinder words.

I wander around downstairs until eleven or so. Trent stays up so late, it's predictable that he'd stay in bed equally late. I'm hanging around the free breakfast station, biding time. I absent-mindedly toast a whole-grain English muffin on the conveyor toaster after unceremoniously chopping it in half with the dull bagel-slicer.

"Are those…_apple-flavoured Cheerios?_" I hear Owen's voice behind me.

"Hey Big O." I say, flashing him a genuine smile. "I would have thought you'd notice those."

"Oh no, they had honey nut a few days ago, trust me." His eyes sparkle as he pours a huge portion of the ring-shaped cereal into a bowl. "I love apple." He says hungrily. "If ever I need to get eaten by the other contestants on this show, I sure hope they put an apple in my mouth like those pigs on a spit."

"Ew. I don't think we'd eat you, not enough muscle tissue I think." I chuckle and pour myself a drink. "Besides, you _should _be dead before we put you on the spit, so how will you taste the apple?"

"Good point." He ponders deeply. He re-evaluates: "If ever you guys need to eat me…feed me apples instead."

I laugh. Though I am the cynical type, it's always the cheerful and aloof that entertain me most.

"Have you ever tried apple streusel?" I say. "Il n'est pas si mauvais." I add quietly, vaguely recalling a line from the movie I watched with Cody.

"I didn't know you spoke French!" He says wide-eyed.

"I know German too, and Portuguese." I continue, biting into my toasted muffin. "Okay, well only a little bit. But it sounds sexy and intellectual to speak a foreign language, amirite?"

"Totally….Say something cool in German. My family is German. I think. Well, my grandma on the Grosse side made the most marvelous German chocolate cake, but I don't know if that's actually German."

"Ich will nachte Hause gehen." I say, with a slight eyeroll. I over-emphasise the CH with a guttural tear from my throat.

"You are so smart, I wish we went to school together and you could help me with my work. And in return you could come to my house and take whatever you want from the cheese cellar!"

"How generous. Hey, Owen, have you seen Trent today?" I say, looking at my large friend more seriously.

"He went around that corner, like five seconds ago."

"Oh! I have to go. I have to, ehm, talk to him. I'll see you. Enjoy your…Cheerios." I snicker, looking at his bona-fide bucket of Cheerios.

Trent is sitting at a little table at the edge. Most people don't eat this time of day – if they slept in this late, they aren't in the mood for breakfast and they keep their appetite for lunch in about an hour. His plate consists of nine grapes, nine strawberries, and nine apple wedges.

Looking at his plate and at the intense expression on his face as he stares out the window, I can feel my blood pumping just a little louder. No matter how much time I've spent with Trent lately, I can never fully feel comfortable around him, as if maybe he dreamed the same dreams I did from the opposite perspective.

I pull up a seat across from him. When his glance falls upon me, he beams.

"Noah." He says warmly.

"Hey." I snip. "What's up."

My voice is pinched and my phrases short.

"Not much, I woke up a little while ago but didn't have much of an appetite. I went to the gym, I took a shower."

"Did you time it?" I say, adding another line to the list of things I shouldn't have said to Trent.

"Huh?" He cocks his head a little. Okay, what is it with me and causing people to immediately forget their previous behavior?

"Nothing, nothing. Have any…plans today?"

His eyebrows rise and his lips loosen a little. I feel my skin tingling and heating; I could have worded that better.

"Nothing important." He says coyly, poking at a strawberry on his plate.

I take a deep breath and tangle my fingers together. "I mean…"

His seat squeaks a little as he readjusts himself. He doesn't speak.

"Eh, uh." Words fail me – an unusual phenomena, for certain.

"Listen Trent. You're a pretty cool guy. Like, talented and cool, good-looking…No. I mean, it's not that you're _not _cool…"

The perplexed look on his face warps into pure confusion. I hate this so much, usually I'm a genuine wordsmith and here I am fumbling in the simplest of descriptions. And Trent is going to think I wanna ask him out.

"Ugh. Okay. Trent, before you came along, I spent a _lot _of time with Cody, and although I don't mind your company from time to time, you've shoved a wedge between me and my good friend, and I was wondering if maybe…sometime…you could let me be alone with him again. Just for a few hours. For old time's sake."

"Oh." He says simply.

A hint of disappointment bleeds through his words and onto his face.

"Yeah, harsh, I know. I apologize." I say, waving my hands around.

"It's alright, man. Maybe I need some space too. It's just, the two of you _fit _so well."

I cock an eyebrow. Fit?

"You even more than Cody. You just fit so well into the grand scheme of things. I'm glad I get to hang out with you."

"Seriously?"

His hands leave his breakfast plate and find my still-clasped fingers. "I'll leave you alone for all of Tuesday. How does that sound?"

I take a deep breath. My chest cavity feels a little vacant, I feel so off-kilter.

"I still want to know about you." He murmurs.

My English muffin vibrates in my stomach, torn apart by a gang on invisible moths. "Trent, I'm not Gwen, okay? I've told Cody this before. I'm nothing like Gwen." I try to wriggle my hands away from his. They are warm and calloused, like I expected, but somehow I imagined his grip would be stronger and more certain. I avoid his gaze for an instant, but I can keep my eyes off him for long without it looking blatantly intentional.

When I face him, his face seems neutral and unreadable. Sometimes I wonder if that 'creepy Trent' vibe is hidden to the rest of the world and I'm the only one who feels it. "I never said you were Gwen."

"I don't even know what either of us are going on about, Frankly."

He smiles. "I enjoy your voice. When you say things like that." His tone is incredibly warm.

I look down at his plate – his fruits are arranged in a perfect square. This isn't going as well as planned, although I did indeed get an answer to my original inquiry.

"Listen Trent. I think I'll go now. I'll see you later, and Tuesday is perfect for the whole 'leave me with Cody' thing."

I feel his leg brush against mine under the table and pretend that I believe it was an accident. "So see ya."

What the fuck, man.

* * *

"And anyway, Trent says that Gwen and Duncan have something going down but I'm not sure if I buy that, it might just be jealousy speaking. I mean they both have multi-coloured hair and they like metal music, black clothes, and violence, but they've never shown any particular romantic attraction. I think if I'm like super nice to Gwen later, she'll totally give me a chance, but like, I need to stay on the down-low for now, you know? Because she's fresh out of it with Trent and she probably wants some time to recoup and I don't wanna be just some rebound, you know? I'm a quality guy who deserves quality attention, I think. So maybe later on I'll go in for the kill. Well, not kill, that sounds too mean. I dunno, how many more days do you think we'll be here? Today's the thirteenth. Are we at the top 5 yet? We've gotta be at least top seven. Maybe I'll wait for the top five to start flirting with Gwen again, of course, I need to get formal permission from Trent. Maybe pointers too, or is that too insensitive? It's hard, I like them both a lot and…."

As I sit in Cody's room nursing a bowl of Tom Yum from the Thai place down the street, my brain is slowly invaded by numerous ways I could erase Gwen's existence from Cody's brain – none of which are proven to be scientifically viable. This confirms that Trent's addition is literally the worst thing that could have happened to our relationship dynamic because all Cody does now is quote Trent and talk about Gwen. I don't like this one bit.

As he rants, less and less steam billows out of his takeout box. He's letting his food and my interest go cold.

"Cody. Honey." I finally say. "You need to slow down with the ranting. Please."

"Oh."

"It's like listening to an auctioneer."

I poke at my food with my utensil. "To be fair…" I add, "There isn't a lot to talk about other than Gwen and Trent, seeing as the latter has been invading our space for the past month."

"Invading? Do you find him invasive?" He says, eyebrows scrunching together.

"Yeah, kind of. He's always got his gay little songs, and his Gwen stories, and his number nine!" My voice gets very stressed at the end of the phrase. "And in other news, I'm pretty sure Trent wants to bang me."

"Serious." He says. This is a rare occasion where Cody shows hints of doubt – and a rare occasion that my statement was certified sarcasm free.

"Yes. He flirts with me in a leering manner and he thinks I'm associated with the letter nine."

"Well…is that what you want? Him…flirting? Like I don't even know what to make of this, man."

"Not anymore." I sigh.

"You should try! I wish Gwen would be obsessed with a number. I'm sure I can compile all sorts of data that associates me with whichever digit she likes best, see it's all in the cherry-picking! If she likes four, well , I was born in the fourth month and my first name has four letters! So right there!"

"Cody." I grunt, a bit angrily. "You're going to sound like Trent."

"I wouldn't mind, Trent succeeded with Gwen for a while, so that's a good sign. Being like Trent, I mean."

"Oh my God."

"And if he _is _right about Duncan, I'd like to try and get there first, you know? Because Duncan's kind of a douche and Gwen is a nice girl, I think, but she needs to be with someone who's nice, not mean, in order for her to also be nice, and that's why I liked her with Trent because Trent is nice, and good looking, and doesn't have a mowhawk, but now when you tell me these things about him, Wow, well I don't know what to think and maybe you're being really nuts and I dunno, maybe I should text him and ask him about you or would that be too weird? I don't know who I could ask to text Gwen for me except maybe Lindsay 'cause we're kinda friends but I don't think she likes Lindsay that much; actually I made a Venn diagram of people Gwen may or may not like and Lindsay is in the 'neutral zone' along with people like Harold and DJ…"

I squeeze the takeout box a little tighter in my fist. "You know what? I really wish you two would shut the hell up about that blue-haired bitch. She was never particularly nice to either of you, not to say you deserved niceties as you acted like a huge creep towards her _at least _eighty percent of the time, but she also seemed like she ogled Trent for his good looks and ignored every internal trait of his other than the whole guitar thing, because if she had paid attention for a few minutes, she may have realized he's a _complete psycho. _But of course, I can't blame Trent for being mentally deficient, it's her fault for not being more attentive to his shortcomings. And speaking of not attentive, you like to act like you're the nicest guy on the planet, but you seem all-around incapable of recognizing when someone does or does not hold affections towards you – how incredibly self-centred."

His mouth is agape. "What was that all about?"

"I'm mad at you. I never spend any time with just you, and when I do, it's Gwen Fest 2009 in here. Between you and Trent, I'm lucky my blood vessels are all still intact and my hair is still rooted to my scalp. I'm actually angry! " The last statement comes as a realization to me, as well.

I leave my empty food box on his table and storm towards the door. I pause for a moment with a hand on the doorknob. Why must I be so ridiculous?

I have a decent chunk of hope left that Cody and I can return to our normal friendship before we part ways at the end of the season, but anything more than that is not going to happen and I have no one but myself to blame. I measured a forgotten yet incredible success with him two months ago, which I purposefully never mentioned again despite being wholly ignorant of his thoughts on the matter. I allowed him to stay in the dark about my souring sexual feelings towards him mostly out of cowardice, and now I have a fifty-fifty chance of being mildly lusted over by a rather hot maniac.

I glide through the hallway back towards my bedroom. How was I to know that all the drama I missed in my first season would come to haunt me during the season in which I don't even participate?

I unlock my bedroom and fly in. I shut the door forcefully behind me. For a moment, I stand beside my bed, facing the bedside table, thoughts blank. How do I fix this?

The clock reads 6:39 and I pull out my phone.

With a heaving sigh, I type a message:

_Come to my room._

* * *

**This chapter took unnaturally long. I had hoped to get two chapters out during July but sadly I was a bit later. Originally there was another scene tacked onto the end of this chapter but I decided it would be a lot more exciting to start the next chapter off like that. Besides, that means now I already have chapter 11 started! :D HOPEFULLY after that TDA will be over because it's getting old.**

**I hope I did a decent job with my Trent. I wanted to make him a bit 9-crazed but I didn't want him to be downright MURDEROUS. And of course I have not seen all of TDA so some of the deets might be off - I mostly used the TDI Wiki as a source instead of watching 9 hours of TDA to write 6000 words of text. **

**This week was like Total Drama week for me, too. Both the TDA and TDROTI finales played on Teletoon, and while on a walk with my boyfriend he decided to grill me on all the events in total drama because he only saw the first season. He declared 'at this point, I think the host is the real villain', which is something I think the fandom can agree with.**


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